


Purity 7: Avouchment

by Sueric



Series: Purity [7]
Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: Angst, Comedy, Complete, Drama, F/M, Fanfiction sequel, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Purity, Romance, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:11:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 78
Words: 377,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1740887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sueric/pseuds/Sueric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Past. Present. Future. A lifetime of subversion. A future in peril. Secrets better left buried return to haunt a wounded soul. To look to the future, one must face the sins of the past.  Continuation of the Purity fanfiction based in the InuYasha universe. Originally archived at MediaMiner.  78 Chapters + Prologue + Epilogue: Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Anachronism

~~ ** _Prologue_** ~~  
~ ** _Anachronism_** ~

 

~ ** _Sengoku Jidai_** ~

 

- ** _=0=_** -

“ _Hentai!_ ”

“I’m sorry, Sango!”

Kioshi turned slowly to watch as the taijya glared daggers at the monk in question. Traveling through the forest, he could only shake his head. It was simply a matter of time, wasn’t it, until something like that happened. After all, Miroku had been a little _too_ well-behaved for the duration of the journey.

Akira stopped, too, setting Kumiko on the ground. The little girl ran over to her brother and clapped her hands as she bounced on the balls of her feet. “Nii-chan! Are we there, nii-chan?”

Kioshi smiled at his young sister and ruffled her dark brown hair. “No . . . Miroku got himself into trouble again.”

The nearly four year-old girl heaved a sigh and shook her head in mock dismay. “He’ll never learn,” she remarked sagely. Kioshi tried not to smile.

“Some things never change,” Shippou, the kitsune who traveled with Miroku and Sango, commented with a disgusted shake of his head as he stomped over to Kioshi and Kumiko. Though on the short side by youkai standards, Shippou still stood almost as tall as Kioshi, who, at nearly seventeen years old, wasn’t even close to fully grown. “You’d think he’d learn his lesson, but no . . .”

Kioshi shrugged off-handedly, unable to control the grimace that twisted his countenance when the taijya’s hand cracked soundly against the monk’s cheek.

“That’s going to leave a mark,” Shippou sighed in disgust.

“It was the curse of the hand,” Miroku maintained, following after an irritated Sango as the exterminator stormed past the waiting youkai.

“Save it, monk!” Sango growled pinning her husband with a significant glower before reshouldering Hiraikotsu.

Miroku sighed, catching Shippou’s disapproving shake of the head. “She won’t stay angry,” he asserted then offered them an apologetic bow. “Pardon my interruption.”

Akira narrowed his gaze on the itinerant monk. “You are a strange one,” he allowed slowly.

“You have no idea,” Sango muttered under her breath.

“Shall we move on?” Miroku cut in pointedly, rubbing his cheek to alleviate the sting left behind by Sango’s love-tap.

Shippou wrinkled his nose and rolled his eyes. “Once a lecher, always a lecher,” he muttered.

Kioshi scooped Kumiko off the ground and settled her on his shoulders as the colorful entourage moved on through the forest.

 

 

- ** _OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO_** -

 

 

The village was quaint, quiet, and not at all what Kioshi had expected. As picturesque as it seemed, though, he couldn’t help but wonder just how safe they really were—just how safe _anywhere_ was these days. Akira had agreed to aid the newly rebuilt village of youkai-exterminators. Though he’d never said as much to Kioshi, he knew that it was because of Kumiko and him. Rumors of uprisings against otherwise peaceful youkai had been swirling on the winds, and even the Inu no Taisho had become less visible overall. Guns presented a very real threat, and as the weapons spread, so did the tales of uprisings against youkai.

Still the peace that they’d found seemed false to Kioshi. Shippou had taken to staying close to the slayers’ village, and Kioshi had been cautioned to do the same. Uncomfortable enough that he opted to live on the outskirts in the forest near the village but refusing to move his family into one of the dwellings inside the stout wooden barricade, Akira had built a modest dwelling in a network of caves at the base of a small mountain with Kioshi’s help, and while Akira accompanied the slayers nearly every day, he expected Kioshi to remain nearby in case his mother or sister needed him.

“It’s your birthday!” Kumiko sang as she sped out of the dwelling and into the yard where Kioshi was scanning the horizon for signs of trouble. “Birthday, birthday, birthday!”

Sparing a moment to glance at his sister, Kioshi shook his head and rolled his eyes but couldn’t repress the little smile that quirked the corners of his lips. “A nuisance, as ever, Kumi,” he grumbled, his eyes taking on a heightened glow of amusement as she scampered off toward the sakura trees.

Using her claws, the girl scampered up the tree, grunting and fighting to reach the first thick branch. Swinging her legs over the limb, she scooted along, holding on with one arm as she reached for the nearest blossoms. “Catch me, nii-chan!” Kumiko hollered.

Kioshi lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the bright morning sun filtering through the leaves and blooms. “Don’t you dare— _oof!_ ” Grunting as he caught the impetuous child, Kioshi pinned her with an irritated scowl as he set her on her feet. She giggled happily, skipping around Kioshi’s legs as she clapped her hands and gathered the flowers she’d dropped in her fall. “You could have hurt yourself,” Kioshi pointed out.

“Birthday flowers . . . birthday flowers . . .” Kumiko sang, completely ignoring her brother’s obvious annoyance. “Sit down, nii-chan! I’ll give you the flowers!”

Heaving a sigh—she never did listen to him—Kioshi knelt down and waited for the humiliation of his sister’s annual birthday gift to him.

Her face contorted in intense concentration as she wandered around him, examining him from every conceivable angle. Pausing every now and then to lace flowers into his short, shaggy hair, she didn’t stop until she had placed every last blossom, giggling happily as she hopped back and thoroughly examined the results of her efforts. “Seventeen flowers for seventeen birthdays!” she exclaimed, bouncing up and down on the balls of her bare feet. “I got a new kimono,” she said suddenly, holding out the skirt of her yellow silk outfit. “It’s pretty!”

Kioshi chuckled—he never could stay angry at the four year-old—plucking a flower out of his hair and tucking it behind his sister’s ear as her giggling escalated. “It’s my birthday . . . why are you getting a new kimono?” he asked.

She shrugged, her black eyebrows rising to hide under the fringe of her dark brown bangs. “You got special clothes,” she reminded him. “Hahaue says I’m not old enough yet.”

“Kumiko-chan!” their mother’s voice drifted out of the humble hut.

“Better run,” he told his sister as she careened around to dash away.

Watching her go with a tolerant little smile gracing his lips, Kioshi let out a deep breath and plucked more flowers out of his hair, staring at the delicate pinkish blossoms before dropping them onto the ground. His father had made a huge deal six years ago when he’d presented Kioshi with his youkai raiment. Created from the thin pelt of numerous pitch-bats, the clothing had special properties that protected him against the effects of base elemental attacks and blunted more advanced techniques. The black clothing was the only thing Kioshi ever wore . . .

A sudden shift in the air brought Kioshi to his feet. The scent of his father permeated the clearing as Akira strode out of the trees. “Almost a man,” Akira mused when he spotted Kioshi, altering his path and heading straight toward his son. He didn’t smile, but his deep brown eyes shone with a brightness that bespoke his pride. “Nice flowers,” he remarked, reaching over to pull an errant bloom from his son’s hair.

Kioshi grimaced, cheeks pinking as his father’s smile finally surfaced. “Kumiko,” he explained with a shrug.

Akira nodded as the girl in question sped out of the dwelling only to launch herself onto her father’s broad back. “Chichiue! You’re home! You’re home!”

“Yes, I’m home,” he agreed, peeling the child off his back and setting her back on her feet before ruffling her hair. “You shouldn’t be sticking flowers in your brother’s hair,” he chided. “He isn’t a girl.”

Kumiko scrunched up her shoulders and shot her father a winning smile. “It was a birthday present,” she insisted. “Birthday flowers for nii-chan!”

“Any news, chichiue?” Kioshi asked, watching as Kumiko ran off to gather more flowers though hopefully not for his hair.

Akira sighed and rubbed his temple, slowly shaking his head as he scanned the horizon in much the way Kioshi had been doing before Kumiko’s unceremonious interruption. “Tensions are rising,” he admitted. “Humans distrust what they do not understand.”

Kioshi shook his head, unable to understand exactly why they would be mistrusted when they’d helped the villagers time and again. “But we— _you_ —have helped them . . . that’s why we’re here.”

Akira nodded slowly, pondering Kioshi’s words. “True, but there have been whispers . . . It would be unnatural not to worry.”

Digesting that in silence, Kioshi scowled as the wind blew strands of his long brown bangs into his eyes. “Do I . . . need to worry?” he asked at length.

Akira stared at his son for several moments before affecting a wan smile and slowly shaking his head. The fleeting thought flashed through his mind, and he knew somewhere deep down that Akira didn’t really believe what he was about to say. The tension that Kioshi could sense in the very air . . . it _was_ real, after all . . . Still, his father put a hand on Kioshi’s shoulder and squeezed in an effort to reassure his son that everything was going to be fine. “No, Kioshi . . .” Akira said. “No.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Hentai_** _:_ _Perverted_.  
>  ** _Nii-chan_** _: informal address for an older brother_.  
>  ** _Taijya_** _:_ _Youkai exterminator – Sango’s profession_.  
>  ** _Sakura_** _:_ _Cherry tree_.  
>  ** _Hahaue_** : _Mother_.  
>  ** _Chichiue_** : _Father_.
> 
> = ** _= == == == == == == == == =_** =
> 
>  ** _Final_** **_Thought_** **_from_** **_Shippou_** :  
> … _You’d think he’d learn_ …


	2. Chapter 1 Procrastination

~ _September 27, 2064_ ~  
~ _Bangor, Maine_ ~

~ ** _X_** ~

 

 

Isabelle Izayoi drummed her claws on the antique cherry desk, scowling at the computer monitor as she struggled to make sense of the information on the screen.

‘ _It’s hopeless,_ ’ she admitted with a dejected sigh. ‘ _I can’t do it . . . damn!_ ’

‘ _This is exactly what you get for telling your father that you could handle this when you weren’t entirely certain that you actually could_ ,’ her entirely too-pragmatic youkai voice remarked.

With a grimace, Isabelle rubbed her eyes and adjusted her reading glasses, scowling at the scanned pages of the journal once more as she gnawed on her bottom lip and refreshed her grip on the ink pen in her hand.

“ _It’s all written in this strange language. No one’s been able to figure out what it is,” Kichiro Izayoi had said as he leaned over Isabelle’s shoulder, deep lines of concentration marring his brow. Sitting in a chair beside the huge windows that overlooked the Montana landscape of Gavin Jamison’s ranch where the family had congregated to celebrate Jillian Zelig’s wedding, she stood with the opened journal in her hands. Isabelle’s eyes widened in surprise when she recognized the first few lines scrawled in the book. “Cain said it looks like some sort of Indian dialect_ —”

“ _Like in_ Windtalkers?” _Isabelle mused absently as she scanned the first page_.

 _Kichiro shook his head. “That old movie?_ ”

 _She nodded. “I . . . I can read this line . . . It’s Abenaki_. . .”

“ _Abenaki?_ ”

“ _Yes . . . they were part of the Wabanaki Confederacy. Native Americans,” she clarified_.

 _Kichiro’s frown deepened as he stared at his daughter. “How do you know this?_ ”

“ _I learned about it in Ancient Linguistics class in college. It’s been awhile, but . . .” She shrugged. “It says here that this is Dr. Carl Carradine’s journal as pertains to his and his brother’s medical research_.”

 _He nodded as though it all made perfect sense. “So this_ is _whatever they were working on . . . at least, what they were working on when Kennedy died_. . .”

“ _That’s what it looks like,” she agreed_.

 _Kichiro scratched his chin as he leaned back against the desk and regarded his oldest daughter carefully. “Do you think you can translate this?_ ”

 _Isabelle peered at her father, tucking a long strand of golden bronze hair behind her left ear and nodded slowly without taking her eyes off the first page of what appeared to be a journal. “I . . . Yes,” she said_. “But . . .”

“ _But?_ ”

 _Carefully closing the book, Isabelle rubbed her hands together. “I can do this,” she stated again, “but if I translate it, I want to be the one to complete the research_.”

 _Kichiro didn’t smile, but his eyes brightened as he took in the steady light in Isabelle’s gaze. “Let me talk to Cain,” he finally said. “And you’re positive you can do it?_ ”

“ _I’m positive,” she assured her father, a glint of sheer determination igniting in her eyes. “If this was important enough that they put the bio-chip in Jillian’s body to hide it . . .” Trailing off and nodding stubbornly, Isabelle pasted on her most reassuring smile. “I wouldn’t say I could if I couldn’t do it . . . and you taught me everything you know about researching, Papa. I_ can _do this_.”

Blinking away the remnants of the memory with a disgusted sigh and a grimace, Isabelle pushed herself to her feet and paced the floor of her living room. Sunlight poured through the huge bay windows that overlooked the coast of Maine and the late September sky, but she rubbed her forearms idly, absently as the dog curled up on the floor beside the desk lifted his head to eye Isabelle curiously.

‘ _Maybe you should call your father and tell him that you can’t do it, after all_ ,’ her youkai blood prompted.

She sighed again, stopping beside the windows and sinking onto the cushioned window seat, curling her legs up to her chest, draping her arms around her ankles as her chin fell onto her raised knees.

It would have been fine had the journal been written in standard Abenaki. It wasn’t. Parts of it were written in a dialect that she couldn’t decipher, and others? Well . . .

If there were someone else in the family who could translate the information, she’d march right over to her grandfather’s house and hand the work over. The trouble was that no one else could, either. Most of her family resided in Japan, and the rest of them lived here in Maine. She, herself, had moved to the United States to finish her medical training—at least, that was what she’d told her family. The other reason? Simple . . . She’d wanted to escape the overwhelming shadow cast by her father. In the youkai world, he was considered _the_ authority on youkai medical research.

She wrinkled her nose, grimacing at the perceived callousness of her thoughts. She loved her family; of course she did. Her father, Kichiro was one of her biggest supporters, and her mother? Isabelle smiled despite her bleak thoughts. Bellaniece Zelig Izayoi was difficult to define. Having just finished her own schooling to become an OB/GYN in Tokyo, she was Kichiro’s main research assistant, and the two of them made one hell of a team.

Maybe the added stress of being the oldest of Kichiro and Bellaniece’s three daughters had led to this: her ultimate failure. Having lived her entire life always being asked if she was going to follow in her parents’ daunting footsteps, always being the one that her younger sisters looked up to, Isabelle had jumped at the opportunity to do something that might offer her a little notoriety of her own, and maybe that was the real reason she’d so recklessly volunteered.

Pressing her lips together in a thin line, she rubbed her forehead in a weary sort of way.

The research . . . the research . . . Her cousin—or aunt, depending on who one asked—had been kidnapped to get the information on a bio-chip housed in her body from before she was born. Jillian was a model, and her new mate, Gavin was her childhood hero. She also didn’t understand why her biological parents would put the chip in her to start with, especially knowing that it contained information that might potentially put her in harm’s way. Isabelle had been horrified when she’d heard the story. Jillian was one of the sweetest people that Isabelle knew, and for her to have been saddled with such a burden . . . well, it didn’t sit well with Isabelle, not at all . . .

And that was another reason why Isabelle had wanted to complete this research. If it was important enough to hide for so long, then maybe completing it could ease Jillian’s upset over the entire situation. She could do that much for Jillian; of course she could.

Scowl deepening as her gaze came to rest on the computer monitor across the room. Her cousin as well as being Jillian’s brother, Bas—Bastian to Isabelle—had scanned all the documents in order and sent them to her since it had been considered best to keep the original books and notes in the vault at the Youkai Special Crimes headquarters. The man who had kidnapped Jillian had been caught, but still her grandfather hadn’t wanted Isabelle to have the actual documentation since no one actually knew exactly what was contained therein.

‘ _No sense putting it off,_ ’ she thought with an inward sigh as she uncurled her legs and pushed herself to her feet. She might as well call and tell her grandfather, the North American tai-youkai, Cain Zelig that she couldn’t translate the information, after all.

There was no shame in admitting failure, she knew. No, the real disappointment was in having to admit that this was just too big for her, and Isabelle had never liked being forced to admit that she wasn’t up to snuff. Grabbing her cell phone off the coffee table, she weighed it lightly in her hands for a few moments, swallowing back the bitter disappointment in her perceived shortcomings.

‘ _Wait, Isabelle_ . . .’

Pausing for a moment as she scrolled through the numbers stored in the cell phone’s memory, Isabelle sighed. ‘ _What?_ ’

‘ _Okay, so let’s think about this. You can’t read all of the journal, right?_ ’

‘ _Right, and thanks for the reminder_ . . .’

‘ _Focus, please? No one else in your family can even do that, so you’re still one step ahead of the game, right?_ ’

‘ _Right_ . . .’

‘ _But you’re forgetting one very important thing_.’

‘ _Which is . . .?_ ’

‘. . . _Bet Dr. Marin can translate it . . . or at least point you in the direction of someone who could_.’

Isabelle’s chin snapped up as her eyes widened in late realization. ‘ _Dr. Marin_ . . .’

She shook her head, making a face full of self-disgust. Dr. Marin, her ancient linguistics professor . . . she’d taken three years of his courses just to be in his class—the reason why she was able to translate even part of the journal to start with. Dr. Marin, the Kodiak bear-youkai that had fascinated her from the first moment she’d clapped eyes on him . . .

Dr. Griffin Marin . . .

If anyone could help her, he could; she just knew it. A soft little giggle escaped her as she darted over to her desk, sparing a moment to scratch her dog’s head behind his ears. Snapping her laptop closed, she unplugged the unit and tucked it under her arm, pausing long enough to grab her purse off the stand beside the door before hurrying out of the house.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“Your mother . . . Liza . . . she was something else,” Dr. Avis said as he set a cup of tea before Jillian on the coffee table in the modest little apartment on the outskirts of Perth, Australia. Sparing a glance at Jillian’s mate, Gavin, who was leaning against the wall with a dark scowl on his face and his meaty arms crossed over his chest as he tried his hardest to look completely intimidating, Dr. Avis sat down and leaned forward a bit nervously.

Jillian didn’t touch her tea, her eyebrows drawing together over the bridge of her nose as her pale blue gaze rose to meet the doctor’s. “Sounds like you knew her really well.”

Dr. Avis shrugged his thin shoulders, cheeks pinking as he smiled sadly. “I suppose . . . she was my best friend growing up. We did everything together—well, we did until she met your father.”

‘ _Like Gavin and me?_ ’ she mused then shook her head. ‘ _Not exactly . . . Gavin is my best friend, but he’s also my mate_ . . .’ She sighed. “You cared about her, didn’t you?” she asked softly.

Cheeks deepening in color, he managed a wan smile and shrugged once more. “It was hard not to care about Liza.”

“What kind of youkai was she?”

He seemed surprised by her question. Sparing a moment to glance around the humble contents of the small house that had been given to him by the Australian tai-youkai, he nervously twisted the shiny black band that encircled his wrist. It looked like a watch, but Jillian knew better. It was a tracking device used to monitor youkai who had been exiled. Ofuda encased in the unit circumvented removal, and in the event that the youkai in question did manage to cut the band, a hunt was automatically issued, no questions asked.

“Liza . . . she was a ribbon-seal-youkai,” he said. “I didn’t realize . . . of course you didn’t know . . .”

Jillian digested that in silence, casting Gavin a quick look. He intercepted the glance and nodded his silent approval. He always seemed to know what she needed, didn’t he? It was one of the many things that she loved about him. His gentle encouragement gave her strength when hers failed, and she bit her lip, twisting her hands together in her lap as she scrunched up her shoulders and forced out the one question she’d traveled from New York City to Perth to ask. “Did they . . . I mean, I just wondered . . . do you know . . . did they . . . want . . . me?”

Dr. Avis blinked in surprise, obviously taken aback at her question. “Want you? Your parents?” He barked out an incredulous chuckle. “Of course they wanted you . . . I never saw Liza so excited, and Kennedy . . .” trailing off as he scratched the back of his neck, he nodded. “Kennedy was really involved in his research, but . . . I remember . . . he would drop everything if Liza needed him. He was constantly checking her—checking you . . .” He smiled reassuringly though the smile seemed a little strained. “They laughed a lot after Liza got pregnant with you . . .”

Jillian fell silent, unable to reconcile what she knew with what Dr. Avis was telling her. The same parents that wanted her according to Dr. Avis were the same ones who had implanted the bio-chip in her, too. It didn’t make sense, did it? How could her biological parents do that to her when it could potentially put her in danger?

She sighed as Gavin put his hand on her shoulder. “I think maybe this is enough for today,” he said gently, squeezing Jillian’s shoulder as she slowly got to her feet. “Would it be all right if I brought her back tomorrow? If that’s what she wants . . .”

“Absolutely,” Dr. Avis assured them. Though Jillian and he hadn’t exactly gotten off to a great start, the youkai genuinely seemed to like Jillian, and while Gavin still harbored reservations about the entire affair, he knew and understood that Jillian didn’t.

“Thank you,” Jillian said automatically, trying her best to smile but failing.

Dr. Avis stood up, stuffing his hands into his pockets, and he looked like he wanted to say something and was struggling to figure out exactly how to do it. “They _did_ want you, Jillian. I know they did.”

She nodded and leaned against Gavin as he slipped his arm around her waist. Sparing a moment to shake the doctor’s hand, he opened the door and escorted her into the hallway.

She didn’t say anything as they stepped outside onto the small porch that ran the entire width of the house. As much as she hated being here—as much as she despised the negative emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, she knew in her heart that she needed this. Coming to terms with her past was difficult, and yet somehow, someway . . . if she could just find some answers . . .

Gavin held her hand as they descended the stairs. Not for the first time, Jillian grimaced as the sharp pang twisted her stomach. She felt horrible about dragging him halfway around the world, especially after he’d just given up two months of his life to protect her from Mickey B, the stalker who had been threatening her longer than she’d realized. Gavin had always been the one to protect her, hadn’t he, and for that, she’d love him forever.

“If it’s too hard for you, you don’t have to go back,” Gavin said quietly, giving her icy fingers a reassuring squeeze.

Peering up at him, she smiled when she saw the obvious concern lighting the depths of his aqua gaze. “I think I need to do this,” she admitted sadly.

He scowled, and he looked like he wanted to argue with her. In the end, he sighed and nodded, instead. “Okay. I’ll be here with you.”

She leaned on his arm and sighed, smiling just a little as he stopped on the bottom step that led onto the porch to kiss her forehead gently. Taking her hand, he shot her one of his endearingly shy smiles and led the way onto the sidewalk, waving his hand to hail a taxi.

She scooted into the vehicle as Gavin climbed in beside her.

Neither had noticed the lone figure standing below a streetlight on the corner. Hidden by the passing crowds of faceless people passing by, he stared at the nondescript apartment building, his face lost in the shadows cast by the baseball cap that was pulled down on his brow. Hands buried in the deep folds of his tan jacket, he smiled coldly as the taxi pulled away from the curb.

‘ _Checkmate, Dr. Avis_ ,’ he mused as the smile dissipated. Pausing another minute, he turned on his heel and walked away.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Hanging the towel over the wooden rod suspended from the bathroom wall, Griffin Marin scowled as he carefully tugged at the corners of the cloth to align them perfectly to air-dry. After brushing out his shaggy brown hair, he meticulously picked the vagrant strands out of the brush and tossed them into the trash can before slipping the brush into the drawer beside the sink. After one last look around for anything out of place, he turned out the light and slipped out of the bathroom.

He’d been awake for hours, sitting patiently on the wide patio behind his house with a cup of tea that he’d set on the rough wood table beside the thick oak rocking chair as he waited for the sun to rise. It didn’t matter how many times he watched the darkened skies grow watery gray and pallid, didn’t matter how often he’d seen the first hints of color creeping over the horizon, the trees. The beauty of that singular instant was never, ever lost on him. He’d made a habit out of watching the sun come up. Even on days when the skies threatened rain, there was a singular simplistic beauty in the burgeoning day. Then he’d gone on a four hour walk through the forest and along the banks of the Penobscot River before coming home to take his shower and feed the squirrels.

He headed for the kitchen, pouring himself another cup of freshly brewed dandelion tea and adding enough honey to blunt the bitter taste, he rinsed the spoon off in the sink before grunting softly as he knelt down and opened the cabinet below. Pulling four ears of dried corn from the paper sack, he made a mental note that he needed to stop by the local grain elevator to pick up more before carefully rolling the edges of the bag back down and closing the cabinet door, pausing only long enough to retrieve the cup of tea sitting on the counter and shuffling toward the doors that led outside.

His feet barely made a sound as he negotiated the sliding glass doors and set the cup of tea on the table beside his rocking chair. It didn’t take long to make the rounds, either, pulling the empty cobs off the squirrel feeders he had stationed around the perimeter of the yard. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the subtle movement. The squirrels were already gathering though they wouldn’t approach the feeders until Griffin was safely on his porch once more. Tossing the cobs into the pile beside the adobe kiln next to the porch as he passed by, he grasped the railing and climbed the four steps, heaving a heavy sigh as he sank down in his rocking chair once more.

The squirrels peeked out of their hiding places to make sure that all was clear. Skittering down the tree trunks and scampering across the yard, they climbed the poles to claim their breakfasts. Griffin almost smiled as he watched the animals attack the dried corn. Picking up the cup of dandelion tea, he sipped it slowly, enjoying the start of another beautiful day.

Saturdays were always a little boring. He rarely had anything to do on those days, having been told long ago that it was a good idea to keep one day of the week to himself, no matter what. It had been sound advice at the time, and between teaching at the university, his work with the nature center, and teaching his Sunday school class for some of the local children whose parents didn’t believe in established religions, Griffin figured that Saturdays were the only days he could afford to do absolutely nothing.

Too bad he hated doing absolutely nothing. It gave him too much time to think.

Draining his cup of tea, Griffin shook his head since the squirrels had managed to strip the ears of corn unnaturally quickly. Sitting on the posts as they cleaned their little faces, they kept glancing at Griffin as if they were asking him for more. “Don’t be hogs,” he mumbled, leaning heavily on the arms of the chair to push himself to his feet.

He needed to look over the plan for tomorrow’s Sunday class, he supposed. He took the children hiking or fishing and sometimes he just led nature walks—the same sorts of things that he did with the preschool kids in the nature center program, but the Sunday classes weren’t confined to preschoolers, and most of the fifteen children that consistently showed up at his house on Sunday mornings around nine o’clock were the some of the same children he’d taught there. It wasn’t religious, and that was the thing that the parents liked. Instead of spouting drivel about gods and devils, Griffin taught a general appreciation for the natural things in the world: the forest and the rivers, the wildlife and the diminishing way of life where simplicity took precedence and all true necessities were provided by the earth and the elements.

Tomorrow’s lesson was slated to be an indoor thing since the skies were carrying a hint of rain, just the barest scent of moisture that he could feel in his very bones. Teaching the children how to gather and create a meal without having to spend a dime was in the plans though he might have to do some quick thinking since the children weren’t likely to be very appreciative of some of the things that Griffin ate regularly. Dandelion greens were excellent though they tended to be a little bitter, and most children were too used to the sweet things, like candy and snack cakes, jarred peanut butter and jelly that came off a store shelf and which most children had little or no conception as to what, exactly, went into them. Natural peanut butter made minutes before it was eaten . . . maple syrup roasted pecans . . . a fresh salad created from greens that grew naturally in most people’s back yards . . . and a homemade paste of apples and dates instead of jelly or jam . . . Even if the children didn’t try to make these things at home, Griffin wanted them to understand the base concept of where food ultimately came from.

The crisp knock on the front door drew him out of his reverie, and with a frown, he lumbered off to answer it. No one ever bothered him on Saturdays, and he wasn’t very happy about the interruption, either. Peering out the long, narrow window beside the door, his frown deepened as he caught sight of the late model disgustingly bright yellow sports car sitting in the driveway. He didn’t recognize it, but he did recognize the youki reverberating on the other side of the door.

He was seriously considering ignoring the unwelcome visitor when the knock sounded again. He sighed. If he could sense her, then she very likely could sense him, and if she sensed him, she’d never go away. She was rather like a parasite that way . . .

With a frustrated grunt, he jerked open the door just enough to glower at the dog-hanyou standing on his front porch. “What do you want?” he growled.

Isabelle Izayoi smiled brightly, her golden eyes wide, friendly as she shifted from foot to foot in a decidedly nervous fashion. “Dr. Marin . . . just the man I was looking for.”

Griffin snorted, knowing in the pit of his stomach that whatever brought the woman to his house was probably something that he was better off not hearing. “It’s not time for Girl Scout cookies,” he stated flatly and started to push the door closed.

Isabelle stuck her foot in the crack to stop him. “Please . . . I just wondered if you could help me with something—or at least tell me someone who could.”

“Help you with what?” he asked against his better judgment.

She smiled in a completely catty sort of way as her eyes traversed the length of his body. “Oh, I don’t know, doctor . . . do you have an itch that needs scratched?”

“If you drove all the way out here just to—”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’m sorry, Dr. Marin . . . I just can’t help myself around you. I swear I’m here on the up and up . . . just hear me out?”

“I’m busy,” he informed her, jamming his foot against hers and pushing her out of the opening.

“I have a journal and some research notes . . . I thought it was just written in Abenaki, but it’s not, and I can’t translate it!” she blurted quickly, pressing her hands against the thick wooden door as he tried to push it closed.

Griffin paused for just a moment, scowling at the floor, shaking his head slowly as he rubbed his right eye. ‘ _Abenaki_ . . .’ he repeated in his head. ‘ _Damn_ . . .’

“It’s really important,” she called through the door. “You’re the only one who can help me . . . or at least give me a name of someone else who can?”

It went completely against his better judgment to open the door and look at Isabelle again. She was nothing but trouble, and he knew it.   Spoiled, pampered rich girl . . . and for some God-forsaken reason, she seemed to think it was vastly amusing to needle him. Muttering a string of expletives under his breath, he cautiously opened the door again and held out his hand. “Give it.”

She looked surprised, and she nodded, holding up a finger as she dashed off the porch and over to her hideously-colored car. Rummaging around only to pull a notebook PC out of the passenger side, she hurried back up the path and onto the porch once more. “What’s that?” he grumbled, nodding at the computer in her hands.

“It’s the research,” she murmured, lifting her leg to balance the computer on her knee as she carefully opened the cover and retrieved the information she wanted him to look at. “Here,” she said, grasping the computer as she dropped her leg and carefully turned the machine so he could see the monitor.

Griffin narrowed his eyes on the small screen for another minute before scowling at the screen. “I need my glasses,” he grumbled. “Wait here.”

“I could come in,” she offered, her tone taking on an innocent falsetto.

He snorted loudly and shook his head. “You’ll stay _here_ ,” he reiterated.

She heaved a sigh designed to let him know exactly what she thought of the idea of being left standing on the front porch. Closing the door in her face, he strode across the living room to grab the wire-rimmed spectacles off the rough hewn desk against the far wall.

‘ _This isn’t really a good idea . . ._ ’

Grunting at his youkai’s annoying habit of stating the obvious, Griffin slipped the glasses on and yanked the door open again. Isabelle was sitting on the steps with the notebook PC on her lap. Stifling a sigh as he asked himself just what he was thinking, Griffin shuffled outside and grimaced as his knees popped when he hunkered down behind her.

“It’s a journal,” she said, pointing to the first line of the scan. “I got that much before I realized that some of it is written in something else.”

Reaching over her shoulder, he plucked the computer off of her lap and stood up, turning away when she scampered to her feet and tried to retrieve the device. “You can’t take my computer!” she complained.

“Tough. You want me to look at this or not?”

“Okay,” she agreed. “That’s fair.”

He snorted as he scanned the page. No wonder she couldn’t make heads or tails of it. From what he could tell from the first few pages alone, whoever had written this had done so using a mix of about five different Native American languages—dead languages, at that, and while Isabelle might have been able to discern the Abenaki language from having taken his classes, the others were far more difficult to discern. It would have been simple enough to find someone who was familiar with one or two of the languages, but all of them? Griffin’s scowl deepened. There was only one person he knew of that had that sort of knowledge . . .

‘ _We think we have isolated the insular gene in the youkai DNA structure_ . . .’ he read. He glanced at Isabelle. Standing on the porch looking out over the lonely stretch of dirt road that led to the cul de sac where his house stood, she had her arms wrapped over her stomach and was staring into the distance with a measure of contrived calm, as though she were willfully attempting to keep herself from being too anxious. “Where did you get this?” he asked, his tone brusque, almost scathing.

She blinked and slowly turned to face him, reaching up to rub the back of her neck. “My cousin—Jillian Zelig—she had a bio-chip implanted in her with a location on it. This is what they found when they went in and looked around.”

“This is? This journal?” he asked, sparing her a narrow glance.

She shrugged. “This journal along with a few notebooks—three of them—those thick ones . . .”

“So you’re telling me you have all the research.”

She nodded. “Yes, I think so.”

“This sounds like some fairly significant stuff,” he murmured. “Isn’t your father the big medical genius?”

“Of course he is,” she exclaimed quietly.

“Then why isn’t he trying to get this translated?”

She flinched just before her cheeks blossomed in a light blush that seemed completely unlike the brash young girl he’d come to know. “I, uh . . .” Clasping her hands before her, staring at her entwined fingers as though they were of sovereign interest, she scrunched up her shoulders and slowly shook her head. “I thought . . . I thought I could translate it,” she confessed, her cheeks pinking just a little more. “I mean, I _could_ translate the first bit of it . . .”

Leaning back, narrowing his gaze, he nodded slowly as the rest of what she didn’t say fell into place. “And you’re too proud to tell your family that you were wrong?”

She grimaced, opening her mouth to argue then snapping it closed with a curt nod. “Something like that.”

Griffin nodded slowly. “Ever hear the phrase, ‘pride goeth before the fall’?”

She swallowed hard. “Of course I have.”

“I suggest you go tell them you bit off more than you could chew.”

“Yeah,” she agreed quietly, but suddenly shook her head. “Maybe . . . I mean, if you could just direct me to someone who might be able to help me, I’d be greatly appreciative,” she went on. “I could pay someone to do it if I knew who to ask.”

Griffin shook his head as he scanned through a few more pages. “I don’t know of anyone else who can do it,” he mumbled.

Isabelle’s disappointment was palpable. “Oh . . .”

He sighed, snapping the laptop closed and eyeing her carefully. Brows furrowed over the delicate lines of her countenance, she looked like she was attempting to gather her waning bravado, and she let out a deep breath as her smile resurfaced. “Right . . . well, thank you . . .” she said, reaching for the laptop again.

He turned away, pretending that he hadn’t seen her hands inching forward. “Hold on, grabby,” he muttered with a shake of his head. He didn’t really understand why he was about to offer to help her. Maybe it was the challenge. It had been a long while since anything had intrigued him this much. That had to be it . . . It certainly had nothing at all to do with the bitter look of disappointment that had been impossible to ignore.

“But you said that you didn’t know of anyone who could translate this,” she said slowly.

“I said that I didn’t know of anyone _else_ who could translate it,” he growled.

She caught her breath, staring at him with a measure of cautious optimism. “You mean . . . you . . . could . . .?”

Griffin wasn’t nearly stupid enough to say ‘yes’ right off the bat, though. “First, you’re going to agree to my terms,” he stated.

“Terms? Okay . . . I could pay you, if that’s what you want . . .”

“There will be no coming on to me while I’m translating all of this,” he informed her. “None.”

“. . . None?”

His scowl darkened. “None.”

She smiled impishly, her golden eyes sparkling with mischief. “But you like it when I come on to you, Dr. Griffin.”

He snorted indelicately. “No, I really don’t.”

“So you say,” she countered, fluttering her hand dismissively.

“Do you want my help or not?”

She grimaced then nodded. “Okay, okay . . . completely professional; I get you.”

He snorted again.

“I don’t have a lot of money, but I can pay you something for your work . . . and you’ll be completely credited for your translation when the research is published,” she went on.

Griffin caught her arm and pulled her around to face him. “No.”

She shook her head. “No?”

“No money. I don’t want my name anywhere on this, either.”

“But—”

“I mean it.”

She nodded slowly, her expression plainly stating that she didn’t really understand his reluctance to be acknowledged.

That said, Griffin turned on his heel, striding back into his house, leaving the front door wide open and Isabelle standing on the porch. Peering out of the corner of his eye long enough to see her lingering in the doorway with an unsure look on her face, he grunted. “Either come in or get lost but don’t stand there with the door hanging open,” he growled.

That galvanized her into action. Hurrying into the house, she carefully closed the door. The sound of the latch clicking into place sounded distinctly like a death knell in his head, and Griffin shook his head.

He still wasn’t sure why he’d volunteered to help her, and he really didn’t want to think about the reason, either . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Windtalkers_** _(book) written by Max A. Collins_. _and copyrighted 2001 to MGM Studios_.  
>  **_Windtalkers_** _(movie) Directed by John Woo. Produced by Lion Rock Productions and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Copyrighted 2001 to MGM Studios_.
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
>  _Anyone … but … her_ …


	3. The Bio Chip

“I’ve always wondered what the inside of this place looked like,” Isabelle mused as she set her purse on the table just inside the door. The place was dark despite the sunlight filtering through the many windows. Hulking, clunky wood furniture with mud brown cushions . . . barren hardwood floors stained a deep chestnut color and without the shine of any polish . . . naked rafter beams over her head also stained dark . . . wooden slat ceilings with dark brown drop fans . . . The only real concession appeared to be a threadbare faded area rug in front of the sofa. All in all, it brought to mind a bear’s cave—decidedly apropos, considering. Pressing her lips together in a thin line, she figured that laughing just wasn’t in her best interests, all things considered . . .

“Don’t get comfortable,” Griffin rumbled as he strode over to the decidedly old-fashioned looking desk and set up the computer. It didn’t take too long for him to open the laptop and connect it to his printer.

“It’s very nice . . . very archaic in the color scheme . . . a little über-macho, if you ask me, but nice just the same,” she decided.

“I didn’t ask you to critique my home,” he remarked acerbically as he fussed with the computer long enough to send the document to print.

“I could copy the files for you,” she offered, wandering over to him.

“Don’t like reading off the computer,” he mumbled.

“Give you a headache?”

His head lifted almost imperceptibly for just a moment before he resumed his perusal of the documents. “Something like that.”

“I really appreciate this,” Isabelle went on, smiling sweetly as she perched on the corner of the desk.

Griffin made a broad sweep with his arm, trying to push her off the desk with a grunt. “If you need to sit down, do it over there,” he said, jerking his head back to indicate the vague direction of the sofa. “Keep your fat ass off my desk.”

Isabelle blinked in surprise as a little giggle slipped from her. “Fat ass?” she echoed, scooting over once more and drawing a formidable scowl from the bear-youkai. “ _Mine?_ ”

“Yes. It’s huge.”

She laughed again. “I’d be hurt if I didn’t know damn well that I have a hella _fine_ ass, Dr. Griffin.”

“. . . If you say so.”

“Want to feel it for yourself?” she quipped, leaning to the side to present him with a better view of said-fine-ass.

“I’ll pass,” he muttered dryly, ducking his chin but not before Isabelle saw the telling blush that filtered into his cheeks.

“All right, but if you change your mind . . .” she went on, biting her lip in an effort to refrain from laughing outright at his very real discomfort. ‘ _You’d think the man’s never been flirted with before_ . . .’

Yanking the glasses off his face and tossing them onto the desk as he sat back to scowl at Isabelle, he snorted loudly despite the high color in his face. “Need I remind you of the terms of my agreement to translate this for you?” he snapped.

Isabelle waved her hand and pushed herself off the desk. “I’m sorry; I’m sorry . . . I just can’t help it when I’m around you . . .”

Griffin snorted indelicately. “Don’t blame me for your lack of self-control,” he grumbled.

She sighed, giving up for the moment since Dr. Marin’s patience was wearing rather thin. “Thanks again for helping me with this,” she went on, wrapping her arms over her stomach as she wandered aimlessly around the humble but neat living room. “If you hadn’t agreed to help me, I don’t know what I’d have done . . . I mean, if you couldn’t translate it, I don’t suppose anyone else could have, either.”

He grunted in response.

Stopping before a rough wood shelf, Isabelle reached out, running a fingertip lightly over the cloth bound books. Those were rare nowadays; those kinds of books with the gold gilt lettering that smelled of musty old paper that was somehow reassuring even as the smell tingled in her nostrils. “You’ve got a lot of old books here,” she mused, smiling absently as she read some of the titles to herself. ‘War and Peace . . . The Iliad . . . The Comprehensive Works of William Shakespeare . . . _Very nice, Dr. Marin . . . Very nice, indeed_ . . .’ He’d never struck her as the kind of man who would spend time reading the ancient classics, and yet . . . and yet wasn’t it rather befitting, after all? For someone who knew as much about history as Griffin did, it shouldn’t have surprised her that he would gravitate to the archaic scripts. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Stop babbling, will you? I’m trying to read this.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Isabelle blinked then smiled. Hunched over in the desk chair, his brow was furrowed in concentration as he scanned the first page of the stack of papers that he’d printed out as he stubbornly jammed the glasses back onto his face one-handed.

“Is it bad?” she asked when his scowl shifted into something more akin to a grimace.

Griffin shot her an unwelcoming glower. “It’s a damn mess,” he grumbled, shaking his head as he flipped through the pages, pausing only long enough to scan them over before moving onto the next. “Medical research, you say?”

Isabelle nodded, wandering back over to him and tapping a pointed claw against her chin thoughtfully. “Well, we can’t know for _certain_ until we get it completely translated, but judging from what was stated in the bit of the journal I was able to translate, yes, that’s what it looks like.”

Griffin sighed. “I see.”

“Verdict?”

He snorted, dropping the stack of papers onto his desk followed by his glasses before leaning back in the chair and rubbing his eyes with a slightly trembling right hand. “It’s going to take awhile.”

‘ _That’s better than nothing_ ,’ she decided despite the slight deflation of the cautious optimism she had been feeling. “Awhile, huh? I can live with that,” she allowed but couldn’t help the impish grin that surfaced moments later. “So tell me, Doctor . . . Is it really going to take that long or are you just making up reasons to keep me hanging around?”

The look he shot her quelled a little of her teasing. “Would you rather that I don’t help you?”

She waved her hands to cut him off. “Okay, you’ve made your point. Bad Isabelle. Gotcha.”

“I think you’re beyond ‘Bad Isabelle’,” he grumbled but picked up his glasses once more.

Isabelle sighed as she checked her watch, cursing the silent fact that she had less than thirty minutes to get to work. ‘ _Damn, damn, damn,_ damn,’ she thought ruefully. ‘ _First time I get Griffin’s full attention—_ ever _—and I have to leave for work_ . . .’

“Whatever you’re plotting, forget it,” Griffin stated flatly.

Isabelle blinked. “Really, Dr. Marin, you have so little faith in me.”

“I have faith in you,” he argued. “I have faith that you’ll find something else entirely inappropriate to say to me, so before you bother, I’m telling you to forget it.”

She shook her head but didn’t argue his logic. “As much as it pains me to say, I have to get going.”

She didn’t miss the suspect eye he cast her. “So what’s the unlucky guy’s name?”

Isabelle wisely hid her amusement at his surly question. “Hmm, well, there are _so_ many of them . . .”

He snorted.

“Bangor Memorial Hospital,” she added.

He blinked, and she didn’t have to look at him to know that her answer had earned her a surprised glance, and he grunted yet again.

She dug a cream colored business card from her purse and set it on the desk beside him before digging her sunglasses out and slipping them into place. “See you, Doctor.”

“What’s this?” he demanded. She almost smiled when she glanced over her shoulder in time to see him holding up the card and narrowing his eyes, as though he were having difficulty reading it.

“It’s my cell phone number,” she replied.

“Yeah, I won’t need that.”

Rolling her eyes—a completely worthless expression since he wasn’t looking at her, and even if he were, she had the oversized sunglasses in place so he wouldn’t have seen it, anyway. “Well, you have it, so if you do need it then you’ve got it.”

“Yeah, fine, thanks,” he mumbled, tossing the card onto the desk before turning his attention back to the stack of papers once more.

“I’ll stop by later to pick up the laptop,” Isabelle said, wiggling her fingers in a jaunty wave as she grasped the door handle and blinked at the sudden wash of sunlight that blinded her for a moment. A tiny smile broke over her features, and she couldn’t help the little giggle that slipped from her lips as she strode across the porch and down the steps.

‘ _And why are you in such a good mood, Bitty?_ ’ her youkai voice demanded, using the nickname that most of her family were fond of. ‘Bitty’ was short for ‘Bitty Belle’ since she had been named after her late grandmother, Isabelle, and mostly since her mother was most commonly addressed as ‘Belle’ by family and close friends. The only exceptions were her great uncle, Sesshoumaru, who didn’t shorten anyone’s name, and her cousin, Mamoruzen—Gunnar to most people—who had always called her ‘Izzy’.

‘ _You mean you really have to ask?_ ’ she mused, climbing into her car and starting the engine.

‘ _You’re either persistent to a fault or you’re incredibly dense, you know . . . You’ve been after that poor man for years now, and he’s never, ever so much as given you the slightest indication that he even_ likes you, _let alone_ wants _your constant attention_.’

Pulling out of the otherwise empty driveway—Griffin didn’t own a car—Isabelle sighed though her optimism didn’t falter. ‘ _I’ve told you: it’s simply a matter of time. He’s going to realize eventually that we’re meant to be together. He’s just being stubborn; that’s all_.’

‘ _Persistence is a virtue, but you’ve also got to know when to admit defeat_.’

Isabelle wrinkled her nose. ‘ _So you say; so you say . . . All that man needs is a good woman to shake the starch out of his sails . . . and I’m the perfect woman for the job_.’

Her youkai sighed—a long, pronounced sound. ‘ _It’s not just that, Isabelle, and you know it. There’re things about Griffin that you cannot possibly begin to understand_.’

The first discernible lines of worry formed between her eyebrows as Isabelle’s expression shifted into one of astute concentration. ‘ _That’s not true. I’d understand him if he’d let me_.’

‘ _Yeah, well, just remember: youkai don’t normally scar_.’

The worry deepened in Isabelle’s expression as she turned off of the quiet neighborhood cul-de-sac onto one of the busier roads that led toward the center of Bangor. That was true enough, she had to agree. Her grandfather, InuYasha had been in countless battles way back when he and her mother, Kagome had been trying to hunt down the shards of the Shikon no Tama, and he didn’t have a single blemish on his body that she was aware of, and she didn’t even try to delude herself into believing that her great uncle, Sesshoumaru hadn’t been in many fights, himself. Even her grandfather, Cain Zelig, the North American tai-youkai had to have had his own fair share of fights, and none of them bore any residual scarring, and yet . . .

And yet Griffin, she knew, did have some quite severe ones—ones that ran the length of the left side of his face, almost forcing his left eye closed . . . scars that twisted and carved deep paths in the flesh of his hands though his right hand looked far worse than the left one, and she realized with a scowl that she’d never seen Griffin wearing anything other long sleeved shirts with the cuffs fastened securely around his wrists . . .

‘ _Whatever happened to him . . . it doesn’t matter. I’m not so superficial that I find him any less attractive with those scars than I would if he were completely unblemished_.’

‘ _That’s just it, Bitty . . . some scars go deeper than just the surface_.’

‘ _Maybe_ ,’ she agreed with a shake of her head as she drummed her claws on the steering wheel, waiting impatiently for the traffic light to change from red to green. ‘ _See? That’s why he_ needs _me!_ ’

‘ _Because you think you can ‘fix’ him?_ ’

‘ _I could do it_.’

‘ _If you say so. Just don’t come crying to me when he proves to be even more stubborn than you._ ’

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Gavin Jamison scowled as he peered up through his eyelashes at his preoccupied mate. Pushing her food around the plate with a fork held in her listless hand, she didn’t seem at all aware of the ardent perusal. Jillian normally had a very healthy appetite, and that she had yet to even take a bite of her food spoke volumes in his opinion.

“We could go home,” he ventured quietly, yanking the cloth napkin off his lap and dropping it on the table beside his barely-touched plate.

“Hmm?” she murmured, glancing up at him with a startled expression on her pretty face. Pale blue eyes lit with seriousness, she shrugged in an over-exaggerated, offhanded sort of way as she cut off a tiny bite of steak and lifted it to her lips. “I’m fine, Gavvie,” she insisted with a forced smile.

Not for the first time, he had to wonder if it hadn’t ultimately been a mistake to give in to Jillian’s request to visit with Dr. Avis. Both Cain, Jillian’s adopted father, and Bas, Jillian’s eldest brother, had asked him to reconsider. Even Jillian’s much more laid back brother, Evan had voiced doubts about the idea, but in the end, Gavin had thought that maybe it was a good idea to let Jillian meet with the doctor. After all, Dr. Avis was the only living link she had to her deceased parents—her father having died well before Jillian was born, and her mother having died just after giving birth to Jillian. The woman had traveled all the way to Maine to entrust her infant daughter to the care of Cain Zelig, the North American tai-youkai, and while Jillian didn’t exactly pine for her biological parents, Gavin knew that there would always be a small part of her that wondered about them. It couldn’t be helped, could it, just as the pain he’d caught glimpses of in both Cain Zelig as well as his wife, Gin’s expressions, though never when Jillian was looking, couldn’t be helped, either . . . Gavin supposed that was natural, too.

“We could go home for awhile and come back in a few months or so,” he offered.

Jillian set her fork aside and sat back, her eyebrows drawing together as she pondered Gavin’s words. “No . . .” she finally said, shaking her head as she scrunched up her shoulders. “If I ran away now . . . If I did that, I’d never come back,” she admitted.

And Gavin could understand that, too. Jillian had spent her entire life being cosseted and protected by her parents and by her older brothers . . . and by him, as well. They’d been close growing up despite the nearly five years’ difference in their ages. Gavin had always been Jillian’s hero, and as much as he hated to admit as much, it bothered him more than he cared to admit. He couldn’t really protect her this time.

Dr. Avis had been more than forthcoming with the information, though. It seemed he loved to talk about Jillian’s mother—they’d been childhood friends, as well. In other circumstances, Gavin might even have liked the older youkai. Too bad Dr. Avis had paid some thug to kidnap Jillian just days before Gavin and Jillian’s wedding just over a month ago. Because of that, Gavin was certain that he’d never fully trust Dr. Avis, nor would Gavin allow Jillian to be alone with him, ever.

Still, the visits, as pleasant as they tended to be, were taking their toll on Jillian. She’d become so quiet the last few days that Gavin normally had to cajole her into talking. He figured she was struggling to put some sort of perspective on the information she’d been given. Gavin just hated that she didn’t seem to want him to help her.

“Tell me what you’re thinking?” he prodded, giving up all pretenses of dancing around the subject.

Jillian’s gaze ventured toward the plate glass window that overlooked the ocean, a sadness in her eyes that killed Gavin somewhere deep inside. She sighed, oblivious to the other patrons in the restaurant. “It’s nothing,” she lied, managing a fake smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“You can’t start lying to me now,” he countered gently.

She flinched and shook her head. “I just . . . all these things that Dr. Avis has said . . . they don’t make sense in my head.”

Gavin motioned for the waitress as he dug his credit card out of his wallet. “Come on,” he said, handing the card to the woman and standing up. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Jillian nodded, waiting for Gavin to pull out her chair before rising to her feet. He slipped his hand under her elbow to escort her through the restaurant. It only took a minute for the waitress to hurry back to return Gavin’s credit card along with a receipt. He mumbled a few parting pleasantries and led Jillian outside onto the generous sidewalk in the waning light of the early evening.

“He talks about her like she was some sort of saint or something,” Jillian said quietly. “Both of them, really—my mother and my father. I mean, the things Dr. Avis has said . . . but he can’t be right, can he? If the things Dr. Avis said were true, then . . . then why . . .?”

Gavin grimaced, understanding the question that Jillian just couldn’t bring herself to ask out loud. ‘ _Why did they do something so horrible? Why would they implant that bio-chip in the child they wanted so badly . . .?_ ’ He sighed. Unfortunately, Gavin wasn’t sure he could understand that, himself. “Jilli . . .”

She cleared her throat, unconsciously moving closer to Gavin’s side as the two wandered down the sidewalk toward the empty docks. During the day, the docks were bustling with activity. At this time of day, though, they were mercifully abandoned aside from a few stragglers who were working on little boats or standing idly, watching the sunset over the water.

Jillian pulled away from Gavin, veering over to the side of the pier and sitting down, unmindful of the havoc she was wreaking on the pristine white cotton skirt she wore. Gavin followed suit, smiling absently when he noticed that her feet weren’t anywhere near touching the water’s surface. Water had always given her comfort, probably because she was a water-based-youkai. She scowled at her distorted reflection, kicking her feet back and forth.

“Was I just . . . a throwaway baby?” she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” he insisted, unable to contain the vehemence in his rebuttal. “Don’t you ever even _think_ that again.”

He regretted the harshness of his tone when tears filled her eyes moments later, but she let him draw her close, settling her temple against his shoulder as he kissed her forehead, pushing the hair back out of her face. “You’re not a throwaway,” he muttered, his voice much gentler.

She sighed and relaxed against him. “I love you, Gavvie,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here . . . You’ll stay with me, right?”

“Of course I will,” he assured her, biting back the irrational surge of anger that welled up inside him: anger that anyone would make Jillian doubt herself—doubt him. “Forever,” he stated.

“Forever,” she repeated, and to his relief, she smiled: weak and thin, but a smile, nonetheless.

Gavin swallowed hard, pulling her into his lap as though she were little more than a child. “Don’t worry, Jilli . . . no matter how the chip got in you, it’s not there now, and I . . . I’ll never let anything hurt you like that again.”

“I know,” she murmured, closing her eyes for a moment as the tight hold of her upset started to loosen its grasp. “I know . . .”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

‘ _This is quite possibly the stupidest things you’ve ever, ever done, Griffin Marin_.’

The frown on Griffin’s face deepened as he dropped the ink pen onto the neat pile of papers and slowly flexed his aching hand. He’d been sitting there for the better portion of the day since Isabelle’s departure, and his body was screaming its own brand of protest at the confines he’d inadvertently instituted.

‘ _Crap_ ,’ he thought with a wince, planting his hands on the arms of his chair to push himself to his feet. He’d turned on the lamp sitting on his desk at some point, but he hadn’t quite realized just how late it really was. Pausing long enough to retrieve a thick plastic tumbler from the cupboard, he filled it with tap water from the kitchen sink before lumbering toward the back doors.

It was pitch black outside, the sky overcast, unwilling to let even a single star shine down from the night sky. He could smell rain carried in on the desolate breeze, and he smiled at the absolute irony the weather presented as he lifted the cup to his lips.

‘ _I mean it. Are you listening to me?_ ’

‘‘ _Course I’m listening to you_ ,’ he thought with a sigh. ‘ _Pretty near impossible not to listen to you, isn’t it?_ ’

The voice of his youkai blood sighed. ‘ _If you’re listening to me, then tell me: just why did you do a damn fool thing like agree to help Isabelle Izayoi with her research?_ ’

He frowned, slowly sipping the water as he pondered the question. ‘ _Who else could’ve?_ ’ he countered, latching onto the first decent answer he could think of.

‘ _Who else, indeed . . .?_ ’

‘ _It’s true_ ,’ he countered, setting the cup on the table before grasping the railing and descending the steps into the yard. ‘ _There isn’t really anyone else proficient enough with all of those languages to do it_.’

‘ _What about Dr. Howard?_ ’

Griffin snorted at the mention of his colleague, another professor at the University of Maine who specialized in ancient Native American linguistics. ‘ _He’d be good enough if it were nothing but Abenaki and maybe Caddoan . . . Those documents were written in some sort of mishmash of those and a few others, as well . . . I can’t tell if the guy really knew what he was doing or just thought he did . . . Either way, those notes would be nearly impossible for anyone else to decipher, and you know it_.’

‘ _Hmm, wow . . . You really gave your rebuttal some thought, didn’t you?_ ’

Pausing for a moment as he methodically worked the latch holding the rough wooden gate closed, Griffin snorted. ‘ _And what’s that supposed to mean?_ ’

‘ _Nothing, nothing . . . just that your answer was very well-presented—almost_ too _well. If you wanted to help her_ —’

‘ _I didn’t_.’

‘— _All you really had to do was say so_ —’

‘ _Except that I didn’t_.’

‘ _I mean, she isn’t that hard to look at_ —’

‘ _Your opinion_.’

‘— _And you might as well appreciate the scenery, as it were, since you were_ ‘noble’ _enough to tell her that you didn’t want paid for your services. As far as that being my opinion, let me remind you, friend_ —’

‘ _Friend now, is it? Since when?_ ’

‘ _It’s a figure of speech. Anyway, since I’m merely an extension of you, then you find her attractive, too, and you know it . . . and you_ hate _it, by the by_.’

Griffin snorted. He had the distinct feeling that his youkai would be laughing in his face if it were a separate entity. Deciding that he was far better off to ignore the pestering voice, he set off toward the blackened shadows of the forest behind his yard. He wouldn’t go far, no, but he desperately needed to stretch his legs before the dull ache that had set in awhile ago grew worse.

Mercifully, though, it seemed that his youkai was finished, at least for the moment, and while he didn’t even try to tell himself that it was the last he’d hear on the subject, he couldn’t help but feel a little relieved.

The forest was peaceful, soothing in the night sounds that comforted him. The singing crickets’ song . . . the soft whisper of the wind in the treetops . . . a lone owl calling out in the distance, and Griffin smiled a little sadly as he stopped to look around.

“ _Why do the owls only call out at night?_ ”

Grimacing at the skeleton of a voice that echoed through his head, Griffin clenched his fists, feeling the all-too-familiar ache stab at his chest—his heart. Long ago, he used to think that the pain would lessen, given time. It hadn’t. If anything, it had taken on a duller edge, more like an ache than a cutting bite, and that was worse, wasn’t it? After all, didn’t it hurt far worse to be hacked at with a dull weapon than to be sliced clean through with a sharp one?

He dug his claws into the callused flesh of his palms, smiling in grim satisfaction as the coppery tinge of blood filled his nostrils. Why, indeed . . .?

The nights were the hardest, weren’t they? Surrounded by the echoes of screams, unable to escape the burning stench of ominous flames . . . charred flesh . . . rivers of blood . . . All he had were sleepless hours spent reliving the past, and even in the carefully contained environment he’d striven to create . . .

He just couldn’t change the past, could he?

And he, better than anyone knew . . .

If he couldn’t change the past, he couldn’t have a future.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Caddoan languages were mostly spoken in the Midwestern US area_. 
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
> … _Scars_ …


	4. Memory

“ _You’re late,” Jordan Winters mumbled in Isabelle’s ear as the two resident doctors reached for the same clipboard. “Guess I’ll let you take this one_.”

 _Rolling her eyes at the cheeky smile he shot her, Isabelle lifted the board and glanced over the preliminary information. “Five minutes,” she countered absently. “Not_ that _late_.”

“ _Late enough, Dr. Izayoi_.”

“ _Stomach pains?” she said, shifting her quizzical gaze to meet his_.

“ _Yeah . . . old man Hiller again. Probably gas_.”

“ _Be nice,” she chided_.

“ _I_ am _being nice,” Jordan argued, falling into step beside her as she headed down the hallway toward the cubicle where Mr. Hiller was waiting. “Anyway, I had a dream last night, and you were in it_.”

“ _Was I?_ ”

“ _Yes. Care to hear exactly what we were doing?_ ”

 _Casting him a chagrined look, she shook her head moments before she broke into a smile. “I don’t think I would,” she replied easily_.

“ _One of these days, Isabelle, you’re going to admit that you_ want _me_.”

 _She laughed despite herself. “Will I?_ ”

“ _Yes,” he maintained stubbornly. “You will_.”

“ _Now, Jordan_ . . .”

 _He grimaced. “Don’t tell me you’re still stuck on Professor Marin,” he complained_.

“Dr. _Marin,” Isabelle corrected, “and I wouldn’t call it ‘stuck’ . . . That implies a certain level of hopelessness_.”

“ _But why waste your time on that grouchy old bastard when you could be with a sexy_ young _bastard, instead?” Jordan quipped_.

“ _Oh, I don’t know . . . I’ve always thought Griffin was pretty damn sexy_ . . .”

 _Jordan shook his head slowly. “It’s the scars, isn’t it? You love the mysterious type_.”

 _Isabelle just smiled. “Maybe . . . too bad you’re as easy to read as a picture book_.”

 _Jordan grimaced, clutching melodramatically at his chest. “Cold words, Isabelle. Just cold_ . . .”

Isabelle moaned and rolled over, burying her face in her pillow as the cold, wet nose nudged her cheek. Whining softly, Froofie tried again, licking Isabelle’s face since the playful nudging didn’t gain her attention. “Okay, okay,” she muttered, rolling over and sitting up, sighing heavily when she realized that she’d ended up sleeping on the sofa—again. “You want to go outside, Froofie?” she asked, grabbing the dog’s head and rubbing it back and forth as she leaned in to kiss his forehead.

The huge brown dog whined, his tail thumping against the coffee table so hard that made the empty glass on the table slide.

Sparing a moment to stretch, Isabelle stumbled to her feet and shuffled toward the back door, stepping on the long ends of the lounge pants she’s put on after her shower. Crossing her arms and leaning in the doorway as she watched the huge dog gallop around the yard, Isabelle yawned then made a face. It had rained in the night, which meant that Froofie was going to be a mess when he came back inside since he never failed to run through Isabelle’s small flower garden on the edge of the patio despite her scolding him a thousand times for the transgression.

She’d wanted to head straight over to Griffin’s house after she’d gotten off work, but it had been nearly four a.m., and she’d had to remind herself that he was probably sleeping. With any luck, he’d gotten some of the documents translated, and she was dying to see what all it said . . .

Still she supposed that she ought to try to get a little more sleep before she headed over there. She didn’t have to go in to the hospital until midnight tonight. Making a face as she ducked back inside to grab a towel for Froofie’s paws. She wasn’t sure why she’d decided to take the emergency room physician job at Bangor Memorial Hospital, and it seemed to her that whoever did the scheduling had it in for her since she tended to end up with the graveyard shift way too often, in her opinion.

The dog ran up onto the patio, whining softly as Isabelle hunkered down to wipe the animal’s paws, and he followed her back inside to sit patiently beside his huge bowls for his breakfast and a cold drink of water.

Isabelle hit the ‘retrieve messages’ button on the answering machine as she passed the telephone on the way to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water.

“Hi, baby,” her mother’s voice greeted, the smile that she normally had on her face coming through in her voice. “I just thought I’d call and see how you’re doing. You don’t call as often as you should, you know . . .”

Snapping the seal around the cap of the bottle, Isabelle chucked the bit of plastic toward the recycling bin and knelt to dump the contents of the bottle into Froofie’s dish. She’d have to call her parents back later. It was true enough. She’d been so preoccupied with the research that she hadn’t called them since she’d seen them at Jillian’s wedding, and the times when either her father or her mother called her, she’d missed them.

Stifling another yawn with the back of her hand, Isabelle dropped the empty water bottle into the recycling bin and shuffled out of the kitchen. If she were smart, she’d start looking for a staff position at one of the local clinics. At least then she’d have normal working hours . . . ‘ _Oh_ _well . . . at least I’m hanyou_ ,’ she mused on her way through her home. Working such unrelentingly long hours had to be much, much worse on her human contemporaries . . .

She meant to grab a change of clothes to wear after she took a quick shower, but the sight of her bed was just a little too inviting, and she crawled under the soft tan coverlet, savoring the coolness of the cotton sheets against her naked arms, her bare feet.

‘ _Just a short nap_ ,’ she told herself as she buried her face in her pillow.

She was asleep within moments.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Griffin closed the door behind the last of his Sunday morning visitors and let his breath out in a long gust. He’d almost forgotten about the children’s weekly visit since he’d been up all night working on the translation of what appeared to be a journal. After his walk, he’d meant to lie down awhile, but that wasn’t meant to be. Against his better judgment, he’d paused beside his desk, which had led to sitting back down; jotting translation notes in the margin areas of the papers, mulling the possibilities over in his mind until he locked onto the one that made the most sense. A couple of languages that were slurred together appeared to be two different dialects of Abenaki, and while the languages were basically the same, there were a few differences—enough to completely change the meaning of any given sentence, and while he could get most of the translation correct based on context, there were a few places where that wasn’t really an option.

It was the challenge, wasn’t it? That was the real reason he had accepted the task. It certainly had nothing at all to do with the woman, did it? What did he care if she’d looked entirely vulnerable—a completely unsettling expression on the woman-child he’d come to know when she was a student at the University of Maine. The light of panic that had illuminated her bright golden eyes had nothing to do with it, nor did the sense of resignation when he’d told her that there wasn’t anyone else who could help her. No, it _was_ the challenge, right? It’d been a little too long since he’d felt that surge of adrenaline . . .

‘ _Sure, it is, Griffin_.’

Deliberately ignoring the voice of his youkai blood, Griffin lumbered off toward the kitchen to fix a cup of raspberry and mint tea. His hand shook as he pulled the mud-brown earthenware mug from the cupboard. It’d been shaking since the night before. His joints were stiff, and he set the cup aside, lifting his hand and flexing his fingers with a wry grimace. The built-up scar tissue on his right hand made writing difficult, and he’d done so much of it the night before that it was only natural that he was suffering the effects brought on by the overexertion.

He carefully measured out two scoops of the dried tea mix, dumping them directly into the mug before pouring boiling water on top of the grounds. The chirping birds drew his attention, and he paused for a moment to glance out the window over the sink, his eyes clouded as he scowled into the brightness of the midday sky.

Adding a slow trickle of honey to the concoction in the mug, Griffin stirred the tea absently. As much as he wanted to go back to the translation, he knew better. His eyes still ached from staring at the printed out copy of the notes for hours on end. Better to take a break before he ended up with a migraine headache brought on by eye strain.

Pulling the spoon from the hot liquid and slowly running the edge of the utensil against the rim of the mug, Griffin took a moment to rinse it before carefully laying it on the saucer he used as a spoon rest beside the sink. Then he squeezed his eyes closed for a long moment, sighing softly as he considered and discarded the idea of taking some aspirin to ease the throbbing ache in his temples.

Grasping the mug’s thick handle, he headed for the doorway that led to the basement.

‘ _You know, this place looks more like a bear’s den than the living room does_ ,’ his youkai commented.

Griffin grunted, balancing the tea as he slowly descended the cold stone steps. ‘ _That’s not funny_.’

‘ _The truth rarely is_.’

He grunted again, trying to ignore the truth of the observation. More of a cavern dug out of the earth than a real room of the house, the basement was lined with rough wood shelves against the far wall. A long work table ran the length of the open stairway with a huge stone fireplace charred black with soot and ash at the end. A threadbare, mud-brown sofa faced the hearth, and he set his mug on the stout end table, sparing a moment to turn on the lamp before slowly scanning the room for anything that might have been out of place. Nothing was. Nothing _ever_ was. The shelves that held a menagerie of roughly carved wooden animals stood just as he left it; the pile of neatly stacked wood hadn’t changed, either. The half-formed deer he’d worked on last was setting in the middle of the work bench, and he wandered over to retrieve the project before heading back toward the sofa once more.

There was something entirely soothing about carving the little statues. Over time he’d amassed quite a collection since he rarely gave them away. It wasn’t that he was trying to hoard them; he just didn’t really have anyone to give them to. He gave the children he taught one of them at Christmas time every year, but it hadn’t made a real dent in the number of finished sculptures. They were all animals he’d seen through his lifetime, all of them in poses that he remembered. Occasionally, he carved intricate totem poles, and he’d made a lot of the furniture in the house, as well.

It kept him busy, and that was as good a reason as any to devote so much time to a hobby, in his opinion.

Besides, it also helped when he needed to clear his mind when he needed to gain a new perspective on something.

It gave him a fragile sense of peace, didn’t it? It was something that was hard to come by for a man like him. After the darker days when he’d been so consumed by anger and hatred, he’d finally found a semblance of peace, and while he wasn’t delusional enough to believe that the serenity that he’d sought would last forever, he’d stopped looking over his shoulder every time he took a step forward, too. He loathed his very existence yet looked for the simple beauty in things, from the chattering squirrels early in the morning to the whisper of the wind rustling through the trees.

He owed a lot to _them_ —everything he was, in fact. As close to family as he would ever have, they’d taught him so very much in the time long past. In the annals of his mind, he could still hear _her_ laughter; he could still see the solemn light in _his_ eyes. They had saved him physically, emotionally . . . they’d taught him that not everything was as he wanted to believe.

Wrapping his hand around the lump of wood, he carefully shaved away at it, taking special care not to cut too deeply around the deer’s delicate legs.

 _It was cold when they’d found him. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He could only recall the unsettling feeling of his cold-numbed body, could only recall disjointed days of wandering, of making his feet move him forward as pain wracked every part of him. He was dying, he supposed. The knowledge didn’t hurt as much as it should have. Traveling through the terrain, searching for a good place to end his journey, he thought he had found it. Next to a small lake, he’d collapsed on his back, staring at the dried leaves carried on the bitter wind; at the vast sky above him that was mercifully free of billowing smoke_. ‘It’s a good place to die,’ _he thought. He might have even smiled as his weary eyes drifted closed_. ‘Only hell awaits the damned . . .’

 _He hadn’t thought he’d wake up again, so it was rather shocking when he did, eyes flashing open when the warmth of a dry hand touched his face, and he remembered wanting to stop them as they fashioned a stretcher out of tree branches lashed together by her unraveled scarf. He didn’t want them to take him in. He’d wanted to die; that had been his wish, and though he’d tried to tell them, they hadn’t understood, or maybe they’d thought that he was simply delusional. They’d saved him, and he_ . . .

 _He would never forget_.

 _Attean Masta and his common-law wife, Maria_. . .

 _She was a gentle soul—a human who had come to the New World with her parents as emigrants from Spain. At first, Griffin had believed that she, like Attean, was Indian. It wasn’t until later that Griffin was told the story of how Attean—a deer-hanyou—had been shunned by his tribe, the proud Koasek—for taking a white woman as his mate after he’d struggled for years to gain acceptance because of his own mixed heritage. Though he was still considered a member of their society, he lived a distance away from the main concentration. He said it was safer that way, especially for Maria_.

 _The first morning he’d opened his eyes to see the sun filtering through the cracks in the window shutters; it had taken him awhile to figure out where he was. He could discern the crackle of a healthy fire burning on the hearth, and he grimaced as he turned his head, absently taking in the humble but neat furnishings in the small dwelling_.

 _She knelt by the fire carefully stirring something in a big black spider oven, holding back the edge of her shawl in one thin hand. Soft black hair shone in the warm light, and she was humming a low song under her breath as she worked. The smell of the cooking food made his stomach lurch unpleasantly. Under ordinary circumstances, he supposed he might have thought it smelled quite good, but the deep, angry gashes that traversed his body hurt too badly to even consider eating anything_.

‘H . . . human . . . _’ he thought dizzily, squeezing his eyes closed as he gathered the last of his strength before he tried to sit up. Body still wracked by agonizing pain, he gritted his teeth and shoved the coarse blankets aside_.

 _Hearing Griffin moving around, Maria glanced over her shoulder only to drop the wooden paddle-like spoon she’d been using to stir the simmering stew as she stood up and hurried across the rough plank floor. She said something—her voice soft, gentle, despite the obvious censure in her tone—pushing him back with a firm but compassionate hand. He didn’t understand the language she spoke, and it must have shown in his expression because she shook her head and smiled apologetically. “Hurt, yes?” she said, the use of minimal wording telling him plainly that English wasn’t her native tongue. She had a thick accent—he’d later come to understand that it was Spanish—but her dark eyes were bright and friendly despite Griffin’s obvious reluctance to let her touch him. “I clean . . .” She paused, as though she had to think about the word she wanted to use. “Injuries._ ”

 _He tried to push her hands away. “Leave me alone,” he rumbled, his throat dry, rasping. “I don’t need your help_.”

 _The woman sighed softly, carefully pulling the dressing covering his stomach away. Griffin couldn’t stifle the groan that slipped from him when the material pulled on his rent flesh. The wounds had been seeping, bordering on infection, he supposed. She’d put some sort of plant paste on them to draw out the impurities, and as much as he wished it were otherwise, he could feel his body finally starting to heal_.

“ _I said_ no,” _Griffin growled, pushing her away with a sweep of his arm. Maria fell off the stool, landing on the floor with a heavy thump_.

“ _So you really_ do _want to die_.”

 _He didn’t turn at the sound of the intruder—Attean. He hadn’t heard or even sensed the hanyou’s intrusion. His senses were just too dull, he supposed_.

 _Maria took her mate’s hand, slowly getting to her feet. She murmured something to Attean before wrapping another shawl over her shoulders and grabbing the pail beside the door. Griffin heard the door close behind her, accompanied by the frigid blast of wind that punctuated her departure. Attean waited until she was gone before approaching the bed. Seeing Griffin struggling to sit up, he helped him only to stick a tin cup of water into Griffin’s shaking hands. “I don’t need your help,” Griffin muttered, anger simmering just below the surface; irritation at his inability to be afforded the basest of comforts, such as choosing his time and place to die_.

“ _I thought as much when I saw you. As serious as your injuries are, they are not life-threatening for our kind_.”

“I _am not your kind,” Griffin lashed out before he could stop himself. “I am youkai_ —youkai. _You’re nothing but a hanyou—a half-breed._ ”

“ _I am hanyou,” he agreed, his solemn façade devoid of anger or hatred at the ruthlessness of Griffin’s words. “So you despise humans,” he concluded with a sage nod_.

“ _You’ve got it backwards,” Griffin allowed. “Humans despise_ me.”

 _The soft trickle of water sounded in Griffin’s ears as Attean wrung out a cloth in a basin beside the bed. “A couple of youkai were here,” he said at length, carefully avoiding Griffin’s direct gaze as he gently wiped the salve from Griffin’s stomach. “Said they were looking for a bear-youkai_.”

 _Griffin grunted, keeping his vision steadily trained on the ceiling. “Should have let them take me_.”

“ _So they_ were _looking for you?_ ”

 _He grunted again_.

“ _The infection was pretty bad,” Attean went on neutrally as he reached over to retrieve an earthenware bowl from the rickety table beside the bed, sparing a moment to stir the contents—more of the salve, Griffin supposed. “You frightened my wife when she found you beside the lake. She thought you were dead_ . . .”

“ _I wanted to be dead,” Griffin admitted, scowling at the words that had slipped from him before he could stop them. Seconds later, the scowl shifted into a wince as the wound that split his left eyelid protested_.

“ _If that’s the case, you need to heal first. There’s no honor in dying this way_.”

“ _I abandoned what was left of my honor long ago,” Griffin said, unsure why he was telling this man—this hanyou—anything at all_.

 _Attean’s hand paused as he smoothed the greenish-brown paste onto Griffin’s wounds. “Then you would shame your family_.”

“ _I don’t have any family,” he growled, unable to hide the bitter wash of emotion that seethed inside him at the blatant reminder_.

 _Attean nodded slowly, setting the bowl aside and reaching for a clean cloth to cover Griffin’s stomach and absorb the foul discharge released by the purging salve. “Then you must survive, yes? If you are the last of your clan, then it falls upon your shoulders to live on—to live for those who couldn’t_.”

The sculpture he’d been working on slipped out of Griffin’s clumsy fingers, and he winced as the memory faded away. In those days, he’d been so ready to die. After everything he’d seen and done . . . He’d thought it was too much, that his hands were too dirty to contemplate a future, but as he’d grudgingly come to know Attean and Maria, as he’d slowly come to understand the understated gentleness that punctuated everything they did, he’d started to realize the truth in Attean’s words: “ _Then you must survive, yes? If you are the last of your clan, then it falls upon your shoulders to live on—to live for those who couldn’t_.”

And there was a second reason; one he’d devoted his life to in the time since. He needed to make amends in his own way . . . to assuage the guilt he lived with every day the only way he knew how, and even if the blood on his hands never truly washed clean, it was no more than a being like him deserved.

‘ _How long, Griffin?_ ’

Slumping forward, resting his elbow on his knee, he let his forehead fall into his hand as he closed his eyes and sighed. ‘ _As long as it takes . . . as long as I live_.’

‘ _As long as you live_ . . .’

‘. . . _Yes_.’

In his mind, he could hear the ghosts: the happy ring of a little girl’s laughter . . . and the wrenching screams of one little boy.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Attean_** _: Abenaki form of the French name Etienne, meaning ‘crown’_.
> 
>  ** _Koasek Tribe_** _: one of the Abenaki Indian Tribes of New England, most notably, in the upper region of the Connecticut River area_. 
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
>  _What a pain in the ass_ …


	5. Missing

“Hmm, someone I haven’t seen in awhile.”

Isabelle turned with a bright smile at the sound of the familiar voice and hurried over to hug her cousin. “Bastian! How have you been?” she gushed, wrapping her arms around him and planting a loud kiss on Sebastian Zelig’s cheek.

A very pronounced ‘hrumph’ interrupted before Bas could reply, and he quickly grabbed Isabelle’s hands, pulling them away from his neck as a hint of color infused his cheeks. Bas’ mate was infamous in her penchant for extreme possessiveness, and Sydnie definitely viewed Bas as ‘hers’. “What brings you out here?” Bas asked, wrapping an arm around Sydnie’s waist to reassure the cat-youkai.

Isabelle shrugged. “Hi, Sydnie . . . you look good.”

“Of course she does,” Bas remarked with a snort. “She _always_ does.”

Sydnie leaned up on tip-toe to lick her mate’s cheek. “Just for you, puppy,” she intoned, “and _she_ is fine.”

Isabelle laughed. Sydnie must have been in a good mood today for her to tell Bastian that ‘she’, meaning Isabelle, was ‘fine’. “I came out to see Grandpa,” Isabelle said. “Is he in his office?”

“Dad? No . . . He’s probably locked away in the studio, and since Mom’s nowhere to be seen, it’s a safe guess that they’re locked away together . . . and that’s just something I don’t want to see,” Bas grumbled.

It amused Isabelle to no end. Even after all this time and after having claimed his own mate eight and a half years ago, Bas still blushed at any allusions pertaining to sex. Ordinarily she’d torture him a little more, but . . . Glancing at her watch, she sighed. She’d been hoping to get a few more errands done. Somehow her one day off a week just didn’t seem to stretch . . . “Well, maybe you can help me,” she said since she really didn’t want to disturb her grandfather, either. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed or bothered by the idea that there was a good chance that her grandparents were off ‘doing the nasty’, but after having been told the story of how Cain Zelig had merely existed during the years of her mother, Bellaniece’s childhood with the understanding that he would die to join his mate after she grew up, Isabelle couldn’t help but feel that anything her step-grandmother, Gin Izayoi Zelig did to convince Cain that living was worthwhile was of sovereign import—even if that meant that the two were locked away in the studio in the middle of the afternoon.

“What’s that?” Bas asked, snapping Isabelle out of her reverie.

Isabelle blinked and shook her head, her smile returning as she laughed softly. “I just wondered if I can have the journal and notebooks? The scans were good, but there are a few things that I need to verify . . . There are a couple of places that are a little difficult to read, you know? Anyway, I thought that maybe it’d be easier to read if I had the actual texts, if it’s not a problem.”

Bas’ trademark scowl deepened, and he slowly shook his head. “I don’t know . . . I don’t see a problem with it, but I don’t want to give them over until I’ve talked to Dad first.”

Isabelle nodded. “Okay . . . I’ve got a few more errands I need to take care of . . . Give me a call if he says it’s all right, and I’ll come by and pick them up.”

“Yeah, sure.”

The phone rang, and Bas glanced around with a marked scowl. It was the separate phone line that Cain used strictly for business of the tai-youkai, not the family phone, and since Cain wasn’t in his office, they weren’t entirely sure that anyone would answer the call.

After a moment of deliberation, Bas strode into the office to field it.

“Are you making any progress with the translation?” Sydnie asked, turning her brilliant green eyes on Isabelle.

“Some,” Isabelle allowed then sighed. “Not nearly as quickly as I’d like . . . about the first twenty pages of the journal are done.”

Sydnie shook her head, flicking a bit of lint off the sleeve of her immaculately tailored brown leather jacket. “Sebastian said that it’s all written in some form of Native American language?”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “It’s slow going, but it’s getting there.”

“Good . . . it’s been awhile since you’ve been out to visit. _Please_ tell me you’re not spending all of your time at that hospital,” Sydnie chided.

“Well, not exactly,” Isabelle allowed slowly. “I _have_ been spending some time with Dr. Marin, and he doesn’t work at the hospital . . . does that count?”

Sydnie digested that, her eyes narrowing as she mulled over Isabelle’s claims. “This wouldn’t be the same Dr. Marin that you told me about before, would it?”

Isabelle bit her lip, recalling the conversation well enough. It was days before Sydnie and Bas’ wedding, and the girls had been standing on the balcony watching the antics of Bas and his closest cousins and uncle at the time . . .

“ _Do you have a puppy?” Sydnie asked, forcing her gaze off the men sprawled in the snow_.

 _Isabelle giggled and mashed together another snowball. “A puppy? No_ . . .”

 _Sydnie lifted her eyebrows, smiling at the telling blush that stained Isabelle’s cheeks. “Someone else?_ ”

 _Isabelle’s smile widened. “Sure . . . maybe_ . . .”

“ _Oh?_ ”

“ _I asked him to come with me, but just sort of looked at me then shook his head. Even if he did like me, he probably had stuff to do for class, anyway_.”

“ _He’s still in school?_ ”

 _Her blush deepened as she tucked a long strand of golden bronze hair behind her ear. “Uh, no . . . he’s my . . . professor_.”

“ _Oh . . .” Sydnie giggled. “Your professor_ . . .”

“ _I mean, he_ was _my professor last semester. He’s not now, but . . .” she shrugged. “I really like him. His name is Griffin . . . Griffin Marin . . . Dr. Griffin . . . He’s going to be my mate . . . He just doesn’t know it yet_. . .”

“Yes,” Isabelle allowed, brushing off the lingering memories. “He’s just a little more stubborn than I thought.”

Sydnie smiled. True, it took awhile to get the cat-youkai to warm up to anyone, especially other women, but once someone gained her trust, she was loyal to a fault. Not for the first time, Isabelle had to count herself as glad that this particular youkai considered her a friend. She wasn’t afraid of Sydnie, no, but something about her tended to be just a little intimidating . . . A good thing, in Isabelle’s opinion, since Bas tended to be rather intimidating, in his own right. “Does he think he’s too good for you?”

Waving her hand, Isabelle giggled. “Oh, no, nothing like that . . .”

“Really? Hmm . . . I think I want to meet this Dr. Marin . . .”

“Now, Sydnie, it’s fine.”

Sydnie crossed her arms over her chest and uttered a terse little snort. “We’ll see about that,” she retorted. “I’ll just expedite the circumstances . . . let him know that it’s entirely unacceptable for him to string you along like this.”

Figuring she’d better diffuse the situation before it got any more complicated, Isabelle linked her arm through Sydnie’s and dragged her cousin-in-law off toward the kitchen. She smelled fresh baked bread, and since Gin wasn’t around to stop her . . . Well, her grandmother was a forgiving woman. She wouldn’t begrudge Isabelle a slice. “Come on, Sydnie. Let’s see if there’s any milk in the refrigerator.”

There was, of course. Gin always made sure there was a fresh container every day since she never knew when Bas would be stopping by with his mate. There was a small dairy farm a few miles away, and Gin drove out there every morning to buy a gallon of the freshest product. It was a running joke in the family that Sydnie’s affinity for cows stemmed from her staunch belief that milk was the food of the gods, to the extent that Bas had recently bought Sydnie her own cow—a cow that followed the cat-youkai around much like a dog, at least whenever Sydnie was outside. Sydnie had named her Precious, and Bas . . . Well, it was safe to say that Bas had been teased unmercifully by the male cousins and Mikio for the indulgence.

Then, too, Sydnie had decided that she needed to do something extra-nice for Bas, so she’d talked Isabelle into helping her dig up one of the larger flower gardens in their back yard, replacing the ousted greenery with catnip plants while Bas was away with Gunnar, looking into one of the cases they’d been chipping away at. By the time Bas returned home a few days later, the plants were starting to take root, and Isabelle had barely gotten out of the house before Sydnie attacked Bas quite literally. Gunnar later told her that neither Bas nor Sydnie had showed up at the office for the next few days, and when he’d gone over there to make sure they were both still alive, he’d found a shirtless Bas in the back yard digging up the catnip plants despite the very self-satisfied grin on his face . . .

Isabelle never did ask what had happened to those plants. She supposed, though, that Bas, in the spirit of self-preservation, had been forced to remove the plants since Sydnie just couldn’t seem to control herself when she was anywhere near it.

Sydnie frowned at the full pitcher of milk standing in the refrigerator as Isabelle leaned to the side to retrieve the butter dish. It was also common knowledge that Bas normally brought Sydnie her milk, regardless of whether or not Sydnie could get it herself. It was a little strange, Isabelle figured, but if it made the two of them happy, she certainly wasn’t about to make any sort of comment.

“Do you want a slice of bread?” Isabelle asked, hacking off a generous slab for herself.

Sydnie glanced over her shoulder. “Okay,” she agreed before turning her attention back to the milk. Isabelle refrained from laughing, just barely. The cat looked like she was trying to figure out a way to get the milk without pouring it for herself and without having to hint to Bas that she wanted it, in the first place. Sydnie was saved moments later when Bas strode into the kitchen. It only took a moment for him to figure out just what his mate was doing, and with a soft chuckle, he grabbed a tall glass from the cupboard and proceeded to fill it with milk.

“Want some?” Isabelle asked, wondering absently if Gin would realize that an entire loaf of bread had mysteriously vanished.

“No, thanks,” Bas replied, leaning back to glance down the hallway before breaking a tiny piece of cake off what was left on the tall stand.

“If your father catches you, he’ll kill you,” Sydnie pointed out, blinking at her mate over the rim of her glass.

“Give me a break,” Bas mumbled around the oversized bite he’d stuffed into his mouth. “I’m a pro at this . . . I’ve been sneaking cake for years.”

“Have you _really_.”

Bas grimaced and swallowed fast before pivoting on his heel to meet Cain Zelig’s gaze. He strolled through the glass doors, tugging Gin in behind him. Gin leaned to the side to peer around him, and she pulled her hand away before hurrying over to hug Isabelle. “I want a slice, too!”

Cain strode over, grabbing the last slice of cake and shoving half of it into his mouth before pinning his eldest son with a droll look.

“Great cake, Mom,” Bas replied, grimacing when Gin grasped his chin firmly and started wiping his face with a dampened washcloth.

“‘Eve m’ ‘ake awone,” Cain stated as he shoved the last of the cake into his mouth.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Zelig-sensei,” Gin chided, turning on him with the washcloth, too.

The humor of the situation did not slip past Isabelle unnoticed. Seeing the North American tai-youkai treated like a little child . . . well, it wasn’t a sight that one was privy to every day, and the fact that Cain stood docilely with his hands clasped behind his back while his diminutive wife cleaned him up? Isabelle smiled. She _really_ should’ve gotten a picture of that . . .

“Before I forget,” Bas said suddenly, leaning back against the counter and crossing his meaty arms over his chest, “Gavin called. He said that Avis hasn’t been home in a couple days. He was a little worried about that.”

Cain’s normally easygoing demeanor vanished as his back straightened, and he eyed Bas.   “Did you have Myrna check his monitoring device?”

Bas nodded. “She’s on it right now. She said she’d call back as soon as she got an answer one way or the other.”

Cain sighed. “All right, then.”

“Nothing’s wrong, is it?” Gin demanded.

Cain’s smile seemed genuine enough, but Isabelle didn’t miss the slight tightness at the corners of his eyes, and if she could see that, then Gin could, too. “I’m sure it’s just fine,” he assured her. “Maybe they just missed him. Call it bad timing.”

“Yeah,” Bas added for good measure. “Don’t worry, Mom. Gavin’s fully capable of protecting Jilli.”

Gin looked marginally comforted, but she still shook her head. “They’re not that far from Japan. Maybe I should call Papa . . .”

“Let Gavin deal with this. Jillian’s his mate, after all,” Cain replied. “Anyway, I’ve yet to see your father do anything to ease _any_ situation. They don’t call him the angry hanyou for no reason.”

Gin’s mouth fell open, and she frowned at her mate for a moment before snapping her teeth together as a heated flush blossomed on her cheeks. “Cain Zelig! You take that back!” she huffed.

“What? It’s not my fault he earned himself that name.”

Gin wrinkled her nose, turning her back on Cain in a huff and stomping over to snatch up the slice of bread that Isabelle had buttered for her. “Sometimes you’re kind of a . . . a . . . a _heinie_ , you know,” she pointed out.

Cain almost laughed. He caught himself at the last moment and cleared his throat to keep from laughing outright. “ _Gomen, gomen_ ,” he said, pressing his hands together as he bowed low with each word to accentuate the apology.

Gin rolled her eyes and threw the washcloth at Cain, but the harshness of her actions was undermined completely by the soft giggle that escaped her.

“Grandpa, I was wondering if I could have the original research materials? The scans are a little difficult to make out in some places . . .” Isabelle interrupted when Cain started to stalk toward Gin.

Gin giggled loudly, pressing her hands against Cain’s chest in a vain effort to stave him off as he wrapped his arms around her waist. “The originals . . .?” Cain repeated rather blankly. “Oh . . . those . . . Um, sure. Just be careful with them, okay? And it should go without saying, but don’t be telling anyone about them.” Then he turned toward Gin, a wicked light igniting behind his dark blue eyes. “As for you, baby girl . . . Calling me a _heinie . . .?_ ”

Gin wrinkled her nose but nodded. “Yes, a heinie.”

One dark bronze eyebrow rose in silent question. “Hmm . . . Interesting. You know, I think I might have to punish you for that. One . . .”

“Okay, that’s it. I’ll see you later. Let’s go, kitty,” Bas stated loudly, pushing himself away from the counter and grabbing Sydnie’s hand, flipping a dish towel around in his free hand.

Cain chuckled but didn’t take his eyes off his mate. “Two . . .”

“All right,” Isabelle agreed, popping the last of the bread into her mouth and brushing her hands together. “Thank you for the wonderful bread, Grandma, but I’ve got to go, too. Seems like my day off isn’t ever quite long enough, and I think the two of you need some alone time . . .”

Gin opened and closed her mouth a few times, reminding Isabelle of a fish out of water. “Now, Cain . . .” she began her protests.

“Three . . .” Cain continued.

“I’ll drop the research off later,” Bas called after Isabelle, swatting her rear with a rolled up dish towel.

Isabelle grabbed the towel and snapped Bas back. He grimaced and covered his left nipple. She’d gotten him good, or so it seemed . . . “Thanks! Bye, Bastian! Bye, Sydnie!” she called, dropping the towel on the counter beside the sink and heading for the door with Bas and Sydnie close on her heels.

“Four . . .”

“Ca-ain!”

Her grandfather’s evil chuckle echoed through the house in their wake. Bas grimaced and quickened his pace, knowing very well what was going to happen once Cain reached ‘five’. “You’d think he’d stop that when there’re people here,” he grumbled.

“I think it’s cute,” Isabelle remarked as she closed the front door behind her.

“Did you think your parents stopped having sex after your brother was born?” Sydnie asked.

Bas snorted as he opened the door of his Blazer for Sydnie. “I could hope, couldn’t I? But no . . . of course I don’t have _normal_ parents . . .”

Isabelle laughed, pausing long enough to wave at her cousin and Sydnie before getting into her car. Checking her watch again, Isabelle sighed. She still had to drive back to Bangor, run to the vet’s office to pick up some stuff for Froofie, head to the dry cleaners before they closed for the night, stop off at the drug store to replenish the staples that she was running out of, and then grocery shopping on top of all that . . . She’d been hoping she could spend some time with Griffin, but that wasn’t looking like it was going to happen. He’d mentioned that she’d need to go over the translations since some of them had more than one meaning. Between work and necessity, was there really any wonder that Isabelle didn’t really have much of a social life, to speak of?

‘ _Still_ ,’ she thought as she got into her car and started the engine, ‘ _maybe_ . . .’

If she skipped the trip to the drug store and the trip to the grocery, she’d have a little time . . .

After all, which was more important: spending time with the man she needed to convince that they were mates or eating?

Giggling softly to herself, Isabelle stepped harder on the accelerator. She could do those two errands on the way home from work tomorrow. For now . . .

Flipping through the radio stations, she settled on one that was playing an upbeat love song. It fit her mood just perfectly. ‘ _It’s only a matter of time_ ,’ she told herself as she hummed along to the catchy tune.

For now, seeing Griffin took precedence, absolutely.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Gavin frowned as he snapped the cell phone closed and dropped it onto the sofa. Jillian was taking a shower—he could hear the hum of the water pipes, and that was probably for the best. True, it could be as Cain had said. Maybe they’d just gone to see Dr. Avis when he’d had to step out for some reason or another, but . . .

But the doctor had seemed genuinely happy to get a chance to talk to Jillian, and his lingering absence over the last couple days just didn’t seem right.

Myrna had maintained, though, that the signal from Dr. Avis’ tracking device was operating fine. He was still somewhere in the city, she’d said.

Gavin sighed and shook his head. Jillian had wanted to stay another few days, but Gavin couldn’t. He really had to get back to work. Jillian might be all right with the idea of living off her money—God only knew she had enough of it—but he wasn’t. Call it stubborn male pride, but he wanted to make sure he proved that he could provide for her without using so much as a dime of her money, ever.

He had promised to bring her back in a few months, though, and that seemed to be enough for her. Besides that, he knew Jillian well enough that she didn’t have to tell him just how much she was missing her family. She really was more of a homebody than he had ever really given her credit for being.

Still, the doctor’s absence was troubling. He genuinely seemed to enjoy Jillian’s visits, and despite the initial discomfort on everyone’s parts, Gavin could tell that talking about Jillian’s biological parents was having a therapeutic effect on Dr. Avis. Just what could possibly be so important that he’d missed Jillian’s visits not once but twice in as many days . . .?

Jillian padded out of the bedroom, toweling her hair dry with a thick crimson towel. Lost in the copious folds of a hospitality robe, she met Gavin’s gaze and smiled. “There . . .”

Pasting on a smile that he hoped passed as normal, Gavin scratched the back of his neck and shrugged. “Your father says that Dr. Avis is still around . . . maybe we can go past his place on the way to the airport in the morning.”

“Daddy says it’s okay?”

Gavin nodded. Jillian had absolutely infallible trust in her family, and Cain Zelig, in her eyes, was like unto God. “Yes, he does.”

The relief on Jillian’s face was instantaneous and intense, and the smile she shot him made his heart skip a beat, forced the breath out of his lungs, made him feel weak, dizzy . . . She’d always had that effect on him. Gavin still wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing . . . “You feel better now?” he asked absently, caught in her gaze, in the shimmering brightness that lit her pale blue eyes.

“Yes, I do. I feel _so_ much better . . . though I have to admit, I was hoping that a certain someone was going to join me in the shower . . .”

Blushing at her not-so-subtle hint, not to mention the disappointment that she didn’t even try to hide in her tone, Gavin wrinkled his nose, digging his hands deep into his pockets as he quickly turned away and cleared his throat. “You hungry?” he asked, praying that she didn’t hear the slight huskiness in his voice.

No such luck. Jillian was always too quick to be fooled by his attempts at nonchalance. She sauntered over to him—he could hear the rustle of fabric, could feel the radiating heat of her body as she slipped her arms around his waist. Somewhere between the doorway him, she’d managed to discard the robe, and his back stiffened as she pressed herself against him, allowing him to feel every curve of her body. “Funny you should ask that . . .” she nearly purred as her hand slipped down to squeeze him through the coarse fabric of his slacks.

“J-J-Jilli . . .”

“Ye-e-es?”

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes. “N-Nothing,” he rasped, whipping around and grabbing her by the shoulders before lowering his mouth to hers . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle wrestled the door open with her shoulder as she fought to hold onto the plastic bags and purse in one hand without dropping the clothes she’d picked up from the dry cleaners that she had slung over her shoulder.

It was later than she’d bargained for. The sun was already starting to sink in the distance. There’d been a four-car pile-up on the highway, and Isabelle had helped to administer emergency first aid on the scene. Most of the people involved were okay, aside from some cuts and bruising, but one of the passengers—a young girl named Marissa—hadn’t been so fortunate. She hadn’t been fastened into her seat belt, and she’d been tossed forward in the minivan, hitting her head hard on the windshield. Isabelle wasn’t certain if she’d be all right or not. In the end, though, she’d done all she could do.

Carefully lying the clothes over the back of the sofa, Isabelle heaved a sigh as she walked over to deposit the bags on the counter as Froofie came barreling through the house to greet her.

“I’m sorry, sweetie . . . I left you alone all day, didn’t I?” Isabelle apologized, hunkering down and grasping the dog’s face in her hands to kiss him soundly on the head. The dog whined, and she uttered a wan little laugh, pushing herself to her feet and wandering over to let Froofie into the back yard.

She’d just turned around when the doorbell sounded. Glancing at her watch, she hurried over to answer it, leaning to the side to peer out the narrow window beside the door and smiling when she spotted Gunnar’s car in the driveway.

“Mamoruzen!” she greeted, hugging her cousin who was scowling at the use of his Japanese name. “What brings you by?”

Gunnar snorted and handed her a brown leather satchel. “Cain said you wanted these,” he replied, stepping past her and into the house.

“Yes, thanks,” she said as she looked in the bag, staring at the research material and journal inside. “You’re a lifesaver, you know.”

Cocking an eyebrow at her, Gunnar stuffed his hands into his pockets and slumped back against the wall. “Of course I am. You making any progress?”

Isabelle shrugged. “Some . . . about twenty pages of the journal. So far it’s a lot of notes pertaining to the beginning of the research. He hasn’t stated yet, just what they were researching.”

Nodding slowly, Gunnar pushed away from the wall and strode into the kitchen, rooting around in the cupboards until he found some bottles of water. He didn’t like cold water, so Isabelle was in the habit of keeping a few extra ones in the cupboard in case Gunnar should happen to stop by. Pausing long enough to break the seal, he tossed the cap into the recyclables and leaned against the counter. Golden eyes startling next to his stark black hair, Isabelle couldn’t help but smile at the cousin she adored. “You’ll get it,” he finally stated, a slight smile quirking the corners of his lips.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she replied then sighed, rubbing her forehead with a slightly shaking hand.

Gunnar’s smile dissipated, and he tilted his head to the side as he stared at her. “That didn’t sound good . . . something the matter?”

Shaking her head, she let her hands drop, slumping against the counter across from Gunnar. “No . . . yes . . . just one of those days, I guess.”

His frown was full of concern, and after a moment, he retrieved a second bottle of water—this one from the refrigerator—and discarded the cap before slipping it into Isabelle’s hand. “You look like you could use something stronger than water, but you don’t have anything else in there,” he commented before stepping back to resume his pose once more. “Tell me about it?”

Waving her hand as she tipped the bottle to her lips, she took a long drink of water. “There was an accident on the highway . . . a big one,” she allowed.

“I heard about that . . . they were still cleaning it up when I drove down,” Gunnar mused.

Isabelle nodded. “Yeah . . . everyone seemed all right, for the most part. One girl, though . . .”

Gunnar nodded, too, the light of understanding brightening his gaze. “You don’t know how she’s doing,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“She hit her head pretty good. I got her stabilized at the scene, but . . . you just can’t tell with head injuries.”

Gunnar didn’t respond right away. Sparing another minute to stare at her in his ever-calm, ever-thoughtful manner, he sighed softly, stepping over to her and drawing her into his arms. She closed her eyes for a moment, smiling wanly when she felt the warmth of his lips against her forehead. “Humans are too damn fragile,” he muttered, his tone almost angry, tinged with a certain resignation.

“It’s easy to forget how precarious life can be,” she mused, slipping her arms around Gunnar and letting her head fall heavily against his shoulder.

“Well, I hate to tell you, Izzy, but if you let yourself get this upset all the time . . .”

She nodded, swallowing hard as the rest of his sentence hung in the air. Pragmatic Gunnar . . . He always saw things in such a realistic light. ‘. . . _Then you’ve chosen the wrong profession_ . . .’

He sighed and uttered a soft little grunt, kissing her forehead once more before stepping back and offering her a thin little smile. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, it’s fine,” she assured him. “Don’t worry about it . . . Did Grandpa hear anything else from Jillian and Gavin?”

“Nope . . . Not really, anyway. Seems that Avis still hasn’t been home, but Myrna said that the signal from his tracker is fine, so . . . I’m sure it’s nothing. Cain didn’t seem too concerned about it.”

Isabelle wasn’t exactly convinced. She knew her grandfather far too well not to realize that Cain wouldn’t show his concern over something like this, lest he should end up worrying someone else, most notably, his mate. The look on Gunnar’s face told Isabelle plainly enough that he was thinking the same thing. “But he is still in Australia, right?” she asked for good measure.

“Yes, and there’s no way he could fool the tracker. He knows the rules well enough. If he tries to leave the country, he’ll be hunted, no questions asked, and if he tried to take it off, we’d know it.”

“Then I’m sure everything’s just fine,” Isabelle replied, inflicting enough optimism in her tone to reassure her cousin.

He looked like he wanted to argue with her. In the end, he slipped his hands into his pockets once more and shrugged. “Look, I hate to take off so fast, but I’ve got to get moving. Call me if you need me?”

Isabelle managed a wan smile and followed close on Gunnar’s heels. “Don’t worry,” she told him as she held the door open.   “I’ll be fine.”

“All right,” he said, pausing long enough to rub her arm. “Give me a call the next time you’re in Bevelle . . . oh, and Izzy?”

“Hmm?”

A strange, almost pinched look surfaced on his face, and Gunnar pressed his lips together in a thin line before going on. “Don’t tell anyone about the research, okay? We checked into it, and I’m sure that Avis was acting on his own, but . . .” He trailed off and shook his head then sighed. “Just humor me, okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed. She nodded and watched him lope down the steps onto the sidewalk. He stopped before climbing back into his car to lift a hand in farewell.

Leaning against the doorframe until Gunnar’s car slipped out of sight, Isabelle sighed and shook herself. After she finished putting things away, maybe she’d call around to see if she could ascertain the girl’s status. She’d meant to run past Griffin’s house to see if he’d made any progress and to drop off the notebooks, but . . .

She had a feeling she wasn’t going to be very good company; not tonight . . . and maybe things would look better in the morning . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Flashback taken from **Purity 5: Phantasm, Chapter 50: Kissing Cousins**_. 
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final Thought from Jillian_** :  
>  _So Dr. Avis is … missing_ …?


	6. Suspicions

Griffin scowled at the loose stack of papers in his hand as he shuffled through the house toward the front door. There were a few spots where he’d need to reference the original journal since the scan was hard to decipher, but for the most part, he was pretty sure that he’d gotten the gist of the passage in question. He’d have to ask Isabelle if there was any way she could get her hands on the original documents . . .

‘ _Are you sure you aren’t just grasping for a reason to have her come over?_ ’

‘ _Shuddup_.’

‘ _Admit it, Griffin . . . she’s not so bad to have around_.’

That didn’t dignify a response, in Griffin’s opinion. Ignoring the annoying youkai voice, he let the papers fall to his side as he reached for the door handle and cautiously opened it.

“Morning, big guy. Did you miss me?”

Griffin snorted loudly but let go of the door before turning on his heel to head back into the living room. “About as much as I miss fleas,” he grumbled.

Her laughter rang out in the quiet house, and she closed the door behind herself. “I see you’re in a good mood, as usual,” she quipped. “Here . . . I brought doughnuts.”

Wrinkling his nose at the offered sweets, Griffin kept moving until he reached his desk, plopping heavily into the chair and setting about to ignore the intrusive woman—or die trying . . .

“Are you telling me you don’t like doughnuts?” Isabelle demanded. He could hear the rustle as she fumbled with the thin cardboard box.

He could smell the obscene amount of sugar emanating through his house and made a face as he reached for the bowl of lightly roasted nuts on his desk. “Yes, I am,” he mumbled before popping a handful into his mouth.

“You’re kidding!” Isabelle went on, her tone rife with unrestrained incredulity. “Who _doesn’t_ like doughnuts? It’s unnatural!”

Heaving a sigh, he tossed his pen down on the desk and craned his neck to peer over his shoulder at the woman who had perched herself on the arm of the sofa. Ignoring the irritation that she couldn’t ever seem to remember where her ass belonged in conjunction with his furniture, Griffin snorted and turned back toward the documents he’d dropped on the desk. “Haven’t you ever heard the phrase, ‘to each his own’?”

“Sure, I’ve heard it, but we’re talking about _doughnuts_ ,” Isabelle pointed out, as though it were the most rational argument in the world.

“Did you come over here just to harass me?” Griffin demanded, “because if you did—”

Isabelle heaved a sigh, fluttering her hand dismissively. “Not at all, Dr. Griffin. I—”

The sharp scrape of the desk chair against the hardwood floor interrupted Isabelle as Griffin shot to his feet and whipped around to glower at the irritating woman. “Dr. _Marin_ ,” he growled from between clenched teeth. “Nothing else; just Dr. Marin.”

The infuriating female laughed, pinpoints of light dancing in her eyes. “Touché, Dr. Marin,” she agreed amiably enough. “Anyway, I brought these over.”

Griffin narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched her rummage through the old leather satchel she’d brought in with her. “What’s that?”

She shot him a quizzical glance then shrugged, producing three fat notebooks and a thin black book. “What do you mean, what’s this? It’s the research . . .”

Griffin scowled but took the volumes she held out to him. “The research,” he echoed with a shake of his head as he carefully opened the book. As he’d figured, it was the journal. “Thought you said that they had this stuff locked away.”

“They did,” she replied, setting the empty satchel on the floor beside the sofa before turning her attention back to the doughnuts once more. “I asked Grandpa if I could have it, and he said it was fine.”

Griffin’s head shot up, and he snapped the journal closed, his eyes flaring wide. Nibbling on a doughnut as she idly leafed through the notebook where he’d been writing translation notes, she was completely absorbed. Griffin uttered a terse grunt and dropped the research onto the desk with a heavy thump. “Did you tell them I was helping you?” he demanded, trying to keep his tone as neutral as he could manage.

She didn’t look up from her careful perusal of the documents. “Mm, I don’t remember . . . _maybe_ . . .”

His hand shout out, wrapping around her forearm as he spun her around to face him. Expression a barely controlled mask of irritation, Griffin glowered at Isabelle and narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, ‘maybe’?”

A slightly panicked look filtered over Isabelle’s face only to disappear as quickly as it had surfaced. Tugging her arm to regain her freedom to no avail, she swallowed hard and blinked in surprise. “Griffin? That hurts . . .”

He gritted his teeth together and loosened his hold but didn’t let go. “Did you tell anyone that I was helping you?” he questioned once more.

She considered his demand and slowly shook her head, her frown resurfacing though it seemed more thoughtful than anything else. “No . . . I don’t think I mentioned you specifically, no . . .”

“You’re sure?”

Isabelle blinked and regarded him thoroughly. With a shrug, she shook her head once more and sighed. “I’m sure . . . why? I mean, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Satisfied with her answer, Griffin abruptly let go of her and flopped down in the chair once more. “I don’t want anyone to know I’m helping you,” he grumbled. “Just leave it at that, will you?”

“Okay,” she agreed at length. “Is there a reason for all the secrecy?”

Her tone was casual— _too_ casual, and Griffin’s back stiffened, his hand poised just above the ink pen he’d dropped on the desk in his haste to get answers out of Isabelle. “Nope,” he stated, picking up the pen and concentrating all his attention on the papers in front of him. “I’d just rather that no one know that I’m being forced to put up with you. That’s all.”

Isabelle giggled suddenly, waving her hand in a wholly dismissive gesture as she sidled up behind him, peering at the translation notes over his shoulder. Her hair brushed against his cheek—he could smell the slight floral scent of her shampoo—and Griffin grimaced, shoving her hair aside and leaning away as he shrugged his shoulder in a vain effort to stave her off. “Back up, will you?”

She ignored him. Somehow, he knew she would. “Who’s this Eaton Fellowes?” she countered instead.

Heaving a heavy sigh since he figured it’d be wasted effort to try to shake the infuriating woman off, Griffin rubbed his forehead and cleared his throat. “Don’t know, exactly. Just says that he was trying to buy out the research midway through. Sounds kinda pushy, if you ask me . . . maybe he’s related to _you_.”

Isabelle only offered a noncommittal ‘hmm’ at Griffin’s assessment. Eyes scanning the translation page he held in his other hand, she didn’t seem to be listening to him in the least.

“Is Dr. Avis mentioned in here?”

“Dr. Avis?” Griffin echoed, turning his face just enough to scowl at Isabelle out of the corner of his eye.  “Yeah, but nothing really big. Why?”

“That makes sense, I guess,” she allowed without taking her eyes off the transcript. “He was helping with the research in some capacity, though I don’t really think he was ever really told what, exactly, they were researching . . .”

“How’s that possible?”

Isabelle shrugged, gently pulling the pages out of Griffin’s slack fingers and pacing the length of the living room floor as she perused the translation. “Possible? Why wouldn’t it be? They simply didn’t tell him what their ultimate goal was . . . It’s standard practice amongst researchers, especially if what they’re looking into could be considered highly profitable or even a little on the dangerous side . . . Information is given on a need-to-know basis, and if you’re just a lab assistant, then it’s likely that you’re only told what you need to know to do your work.”

Griffin grunted and stood up again, lumbering off toward the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

He supposed that was possible. He’d seen stranger things in his life not to believe that maybe this lab rat, Dr. Avis really didn’t know exactly what they were researching. From what he’d gathered from the journal thus far, it seemed as though the main reason that the brothers had given this doctor a job was because he was a good friend of one of the brother’s wife. Now if he could just figure out what, exactly, the research was, maybe it’d start to make more sense to him . . .

“‘ _Fellowes is very persistent. I don’t think he’ll give up trying to buy us out. It’s starting to make Ken a little jumpy, and I wonder if he isn’t becoming rather paranoid_ . . .’” Isabelle read aloud as she followed him into the kitchen. “Paranoia . . .” She trailed off with a sigh, leaning back against the cupboard as she watched Griffin slowly, carefully measure out the dried leaves before pouring hot water into the earthenware mug. “So whatever they were researching had to be really big.”

“Sounds like it,” he agreed without looking at her. Life was simpler if he avoided eye contact with that particular female, after all. “Why all the interest in this Dr. Avis? Sounds like he was pretty much small potatoes, if you ask me.”

Isabelle sighed and tapped the bottom edges of the papers on the counter. “My cousin, Jillian’s in Australia visiting him now. He knew her parents—at least her mother—well. They grew up together, she said. Can’t say I blame her for wanting answers. She never really knew her biological parents, but I wonder what her mate’s thinking, taking off with her like that, and to visit the man who had her kidnapped just to get that damn bio-chip . . .”

Griffin shot Isabelle a quick look. She was running her finger down the page, and he had to wonder if she weren’t simply talking aloud to herself. “Wait . . . this Dr. Avis is the one who had her kidnapped?” he blurted, eyebrows furrowing in surprise.

Isabelle nodded, her answer rather vague since she hadn’t taken her eyes off the translation. “Hmm, yes. I was rather surprised that he wasn’t killed on the spot, but then, maybe not. Grandpa just . . . Well, he said that he didn’t believe Dr. Avis was capable of killing anyone, and he didn’t _really_ hurt her, after all, even if he wasn’t exactly on the up-and-up.”

“Your grandfather let the man go?”

Isabelle blinked and looked up at long last, though he had a sneaking suspicion that she was about to laugh at him. His frown deepened. “Not really, no. He had him excommunicated. Dr. Avis was sent to Australia, and if he tries to leave the Australian tai-youkai’s jurisdiction, he’ll be hunted. Even so, I think Grandpa did it for Jillian. She wanted to know about her biological parents, and he’s the only one that knew them.”

“How does he know that this doctor-guy isn’t dangerous?”

“It wasn’t just Grandpa’s opinion. Everyone else agreed, too. Anyway, if everyone was killed for making a mistake, the world would be a pretty sorry place, don’t you think?”

Griffin snorted and got into the cupboard for the small crock of clover honey before responding to that. “Some mistakes are bigger than others,” he pointed out, “and you’re making it sound like the guy didn’t do anything worse than jaywalking.”

“It’s not that,” she argued. “It was mostly for Jillian. Even then, if Dr. Avis really was dangerous, Grandpa never would have been so lenient with him, and he did tell Jilli that she’s not allowed to visit with him without her mate, so it’s all good.”

That earned Isabelle another pronounced snort. “And her mate is able to protect her?”

Isabelle laughed. “Gavin? Heavens, yes! He’s almost as big as my cousin, Bastian, and that’s saying a mouthful. His father is one of Grandpa’s main hunters, and Gavin’s trained with the best of them—well, aside from my other grandfather . . . Is that a good enough pedigree?”

“Yeah, well . . .”

Her laughter trailed after him as he took up his mug and shuffled out of the kitchen. She obviously thought that he was being suspicious for no good reason, but something just didn’t sound right. No, he didn’t doubt at all that Cain Zelig had his reasons for letting Dr. Avis off with little worse than what amounted to a slap on the wrist, and he didn’t doubt that the tai-youkai was probably right about the man’s character. Still, if he’d kidnapped Cain Zelig’s daughter . . .

The trill of her cell phone cut through the unsettling sound of her laughter, and Griffin shook his head. As often as she’d been in his home of late, he figured he ought to be a little more used to her than he was. It never ceased to amaze him, just how often she fielded phone calls. Maybe she should look into getting her phone grafted to the side of her head . . . Setting the mug aside, Griffin reached into the worn satchel for the journal. Pausing a moment to run his fingers over the worn black leather cover of the volume, he frowned.

A lot of things didn’t make sense, to be honest. If Dr. Avis didn’t know what sort of research they were doing, why was he so desperate to get a hold of it, in the first place? Why risk his life by tangling with the North American tai-youkai if he didn’t have to? That alone smacked of stupidity. Hell, the guy could have approached Jillian and told her that he was an old family friend, and that probably would have gotten him further than kidnapping her did. He didn’t doubt Zelig’s reasoning, no, but then maybe he had a tendency to be a lot more suspicious than most.

No, there really had to be more to it. If he could just figure out exactly what they were researching, maybe things would make a little more sense . . .

“—Wouldn’t worry too much, Jilli. I’m sure that there’s a good reason for it, after all,” Isabelle said as she breezed back into the living room, still talking into the cell phone.

Griffin pinned her with a pointed look that she conveniently ignored. The woman had no viable manners; no saving graces, whatsoever.

‘ _None, Griffin?_ ’ his youkai drawled.

Griffin snorted inwardly. ‘ _None_.’

‘ _Oh, I don’t know about_ that . . . _Her_ . . . ‘assets’ _look pretty good from here_ . . .’

‘. . . _Shut up_.’ Clearing his throat as he tried his hardest not to look at Isabelle, Griffin brushed off his youkai’s inane babbling. “What was that all about?”

“What? The phone call? That was Jilli . . . She’s been a little worried. It seems that the good doctor hasn’t been home the last few times she and Gavin went over there to talk to him.”

“Just stepped out or something?”

“Something like that,” Isabelle agreed. “Anyway, I’m sure it’s nothing serious . . . just bad timing, probably.”

Griffin grunted in reply, turning his attention back to the journal and entirely dismissing Isabelle.

“Well, I hate to run off, but I have to get to work,” Isabelle said as she snapped the phone closed and dropped it into her purse.

Griffin shot her a cursory glance and grunted. “Best news I’ve had all day,” he mumbled.

Isabelle heaved a sigh then giggled. “You know, you could at least pretend that you’re going to miss me.”

“It’d be a lie,” he stated flatly.

“Now, now. No need to be nasty . . . How about you just say you’ll miss me, even if you won’t?”

“Oh. Please. Don’t go. I might cry if you do,” he stated in the baldest tone he could muster.

Isabelle giggled—an entirely pleasant sound that grated on his nerves just the same. “Well, if you insist . . .”

“Give you an inch, and you try to take a mile,” he grumbled. “Get out of here, will you?”

The echo of her laughter warmed the atmosphere inside the house long after she’d gone, and Griffin sighed, shaking his head and trying to ignore the unsettling feeling that she could very easily insinuate herself into his life if he weren’t careful. He’d known it years ago, the day she’s breezed through the doors into the lecture hall where he taught Introduction to Ancient Linguistics at the University of Maine. She’s sat at the back of the hall, her brilliant golden eyes glued on his face the entire session, and oddly enough, he hadn’t once sensed the absolute horror that he normally perceived at least once whenever he met someone new. No, she’d sat there listening as though the subject was of sovereign interest, and it hadn’t taken long for her to become the brightest spot in his otherwise colorless existence. She thought nothing of challenging him in class and outside of the classroom, as well, and at first it had been purely academic. As intelligent and quick-witted as she was beautiful, it hadn’t taken Griffin long to learn that the woman was more dangerous than any man he’d ever met. When the sexual innuendo had started, though, he’d put a stop to it quickly enough, refusing to encourage something that didn’t have a chance in hell of ever being more than just a game to a girl like her, and he’d done well to hide his feelings, hadn’t he? The self-discipline he’d learned so long ago had become his one salvation against her formidable, if not subtle, attacks. If she ever found out exactly how badly she could get to him . . .

And that was something that just couldn’t happen; not in his lifetime . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle rolled her head back and rubbed her neck with a weary hand, pausing long enough to rub her eyes then check her watch before dropping the clipboard into the slot on the counter with a heavy sigh. It was only nine o’clock. ‘ _Another three hours to go_ . . .’

“You look like hell, Dr. Izayoi.”

Narrowing her eyes, Isabelle shifted what she hoped was a fulminating glower on her coworker. “Haven’t you ever heard that saying? ‘ _If you can’t find something nice to say_ ’ . . .”

Jordan Winters laughed as he looked over the next clipboard in line and grimaced. “Sure, I’ve heard that,” he quipped, “but you’ve often said that you don’t stand on empty flattery, right?”

“Hmm . . .”

He peered over her shoulder at the clipboard she’d grabbed. “Sore throat? I’ll trade you . . .”

Leaning to the side to look at Jordan’s next patient’s sheet, Isabelle couldn’t help but laugh. “Constipation? No, thanks . . . I think I’ll stick with the sore throat, thanks.”

“You’re so heartless,” Jordan pouted, running his slim fingers through his thick chestnut hair.

“Well, you are the one who is constantly trying to score points with me,” she reminded him.

He made a face then grinned unrepentantly. “True enough . . . Is it working?”

Isabelle rolled her eyes then laughed as she turned around to locate the patient with the sore throat. “No, it’s not,” she informed him, “but feel free to keep trying.”

“You’re hell on a guy’s ego, Isabelle.”

She smiled. “I try.”

“Sir, if you have an emergency, you need to fill out one of these sheets and sit in the waiting room . . .”

“It’s not that kind of emergency. Just tell me where I can find—There you are!”

Isabelle turned at the sound of the all-too-familiar voice and blinked in surprise. If she hadn’t heard him for herself, she never would have believed that Griffin would ever sound quite so . . . panicked? “Griffin?” she called, striding away from Jordan without taking her eyes off the bear-youkai who looked as though he was seriously considering committing some mayhem . . .

“You have to come with me,” he stated without preamble, grabbing her arm and hustling her toward the doors.

“Hold on! My shift’s not over yet! I can’t just—”

The look he shot her silenced her completely. Scowling dangerously at her, his eyes glowing with an odd sort of light, he looked like he might just toss her over his shoulder and drag her out of there if she didn’t comply, and without thinking about it, she took a step back in retreat. “What’s going on?”

He was struggling to keep his cool, she could tell . . . that or he was considering just how much trouble he’d get into if he slapped his hand over her mouth and made like a cave man . . . “I don’t have time to explain yet. Just come on, all right?”

“I knew you’d miss me,” she quipped, resorting to a childhood habit of making jokes to calm her own nerves. Something about his demeanor unsettled her; frightened her. She wasn’t scared of Griffin, per se, but there was something odd in his urgency.

“Damn it, Isabelle—”

“No, seriously, I can’t just leave. I don’t get off work till midnight . . . Can’t it wait until then?”

“No,” he growled, his already foreboding expression growing blacker by the second.

“What is this about?”

He sighed. “Fine . . . give me your keys.”

“My keys?”

He held out his hand, bouncing his palm up and down for added effect. “Yes, your keys. Just give them to me.”

She rolled her eyes and smiled at last. “If you wanted to borrow my car, all you had to do was ask.”

“That, too. I need your house keys though.”

“My house keys?”

Another sigh, this one far more frustrated than the prior one, had Isabelle patting her pockets for her keys. “Here,” she said, handing them over.

“You get off at midnight, right?”

She nodded. “Yes . . .”

He nodded, clutching the keys so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “I’ll pick you up.”

“So you’re not going to be waiting naked in my bed?”

That earned her another scathing glower. “Don’t come outside until you see your car.”

“All right; all right; I got it . . . You know, Griffin, you could tell me why you’re acting so strangely.”

He was already heading for the door. “I’ll tell you later,” he grumbled without breaking his stride.

Isabelle watched him go, rubbing her forearms as a sudden chill raced up her spine. She wasn’t certain why, but she had a feeling that whatever was bothering Griffin was serious— _very_ serious.

But . . . what . . .?

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _So he_ did _miss me! I knew it!_


	7. Houseguest

Isabelle blinked in shock and slowly shook her head as she struggled to wrap her mind around everything Griffin had just told her. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said slowly, stroking the fine hair on Froofie’s knobby head. His thick tail thumped heavily on the hardwood floor, and he whined softly and stuck his paw in Isabelle’s lap.

“Do I _look_ like I’m kidding?” Griffin growled, wrinkling his nose at the hot pink nail polish on Froofie’s claws. “That poor dog . . . you know, that could be considered animal abuse,” he pointed out gruffly.

“What? The nail polish? He likes it, don’t you, Froofums?”

It was Griffin’s turn to blink. “Froofums?”

“Oh, I just call him that sometimes.”

Griffin snorted. “Thank God.”

“His real name is Froofie,” she went on.

“You’re _not_ serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Griffin heaved a sigh, rubbing his eyes as though he were at the end of his proverbial rope. She actually looked as though she wasn’t entirely sure why he would find the name objectionable. That just figured, didn’t it? “No reason . . .”

Isabelle opened her mouth to ask him what he thought was so odd about the dog’s name, but shook her head when she recalled exactly what had started the entire conversation.

“ _So, are you going to tell me why you wanted my house keys?” Isabelle asked as she settled herself into the passenger side of her car_.

 _Griffin took a moment to check the rearview mirrors before slowly pulling away from the curb in front of the hospital’s emergency ward entrance. For a moment, she didn’t think he actually was going to answer her. Driving in silence through the Saturday night crowd that milled around downtown Bangor, it seemed that it was taking all of his concentration just to navigate the busy streets, and not for the first time, she had to wonder just how bad his vision really was. Blinking, squinting as he tried to watch the road under the harshness of the streetlamps, he looked a little disoriented though he didn’t complain. Stealing a surreptitious glance at him, Isabelle couldn’t help the rapid flutter in her chest. Seeing his face in the capricious light filtering through the windshield, alternating with the darkness of the shadows cast from the night, he looked damn good to her_ . . .

“ _I’ll explain it later,” he mumbled, obliterating the pleasant idyll she’d been lost in_. “ _You need anything before we go back to the house?_ ”

“ _Need . . .? Uh, no . . .” she replied, biting her lip at the unaccountable fluster that she was having difficulty hiding. Luckily for her, Griffin was far too preoccupied with driving and didn’t notice, which, she supposed, was a good thing_.

“ _You didn’t tell me you had a horse of a dog,” Griffin remarked suddenly, scowl darkening though she wasn’t certain if that was because of the aforementioned dog or because he really seemed to hate driving_.

 _Isabelle couldn’t help the little giggle that escaped her. “He’s just a puppy!” she protested_.

 _Griffin snorted, sparing a moment to pin her with a dubious glance before tightening his hands on the steering wheel and turning his attention back to the road once more. “Puppy, my ass,” he grumbled_.

 _Her laughter died away when he rubbed his temple with a noticeably shaking hand. “You know, I could drive,” she offered slowly, hoping that her tone was a little more neutral than it sounded in her own ears_.

“ _I’m fine,” he insisted, rotating his wrist to adjust his shirt cuff before grasping the steering wheel once more_.

 _She opened her mouth to argue with him but closed it again when he shot her a foreboding look. The look shifted into one of mute irritation, though, and he braked rather sharply to avoid running a red light. “You’re a medical doctor, aren’t you?_ ”

 _Isabelle blinked and nodded, wondering just what he was talking about now. No doubt about it, Griffin wasn’t acting like himself; not at all . . . “Yes_ . . .”

 _He grunted. “Then you know that a good portion of traffic fatalities comes from the occupants of the cars’ inattention to their own safety_.”

“ _Are you planning on wrecking my car?_ ”

 _He snorted_.

“ _Do you actually have a driver’s license?” she asked at length_.

“. . . _Yes_.”

“ _Can I see it?_ ”

“ _No.” He rolled his eyes and jerked the gear shift into ‘park’. “Put your seatbelt on, fat ass_.”

“ _Ah, we’re talking about my ass again?” she quipped but reached for the seatbelt, just the same. Griffin waited until she’d fastened the latch securely before grudgingly shifting the car into ‘drive’ again. “I must say,” she went on, “I’m flattered that you care so much about my safety. I knew your cold façade was all just an act_.”

“ _Just because I’d rather not scrape your mangled body off the pavement doesn’t mean I give a damn,” he growled. “I don’t like taking showers right before bed, and I’d rather not have your blood all over my sheets_.”

 _She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. There was something about his dry wit that appealed to her_.

She wasn’t sure what she’d really expected. She supposed that his odd behavior had something to do with the journal, and truthfully, she’d been wondering exactly why he’d wanted her house keys, but she hadn’t really gotten to dwell on that. Shortly after Griffin’s unceremonious departure, a couple of high school kids—a boy and his date—had been brought in. They’d been out partying and in a stupid, drunken moment, the boy had driven his car straight into a sycamore tree. Luckily, their injuries hadn’t been too severe, but Isabelle had been worried enough to order a series of x-rays along with some other tests in order to rule out any possibility of internal injuries since the boy had been unconscious when he was brought in.

Of course, that wasn’t the point. The actual issue was what Griffin had said in his usual blunt manner seconds after walking into his house and locking the door . . .

“So are you going to explain exactly why you think that I’m in danger?” Isabelle asked.

Griffin snorted, probably because she didn’t sound concerned in the least. “I don’t think it; I know it. Stop brushing me off, will you?”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m in danger . . . You are going to tell me why you think so, aren’t you, big boy?”

She could tell from the irritation that flitted across his features that he didn’t like what she’d said. He chose to ignore it, casting her a dark look before pushing himself to his feet and lumbering over to the desk. He returned with the journal and a notebook, plopping both into Isabelle’s lap before dropping back onto the sofa once more. “It’s all there.”

Isabelle dug her glasses out of her pocket and put them on with one hand as she opened the notebook with the other, noting absently that Griffin’s handwriting was small but neat and precise: exactly how Griffin tended to do everything.

‘ _As the research’s progressed, we’ve tried to keep the crux of it a secret. It wasn’t hard in the beginning, but as we near the testing phase, it grows increasingly difficult. It was purely happenstance that we discovered and were able to isolate the arbitrary gene that causes the youkai effect in hanyous—more of a freak coincidence than anything—and there are those who would try to exploit this discovery if given the chance_ . . .’

“ _The youkai effect in hanyous_ . . .” Isabelle repeated, more to herself than anything. “The youkai effect . . .? What does that mean?”

Griffin snorted again. “What do you _think_ it means? I’d say it’s pretty obvious; wouldn’t you say?”

Isabelle blinked, finally lifting her gaze to meet his. “You mean the danger of a hanyou’s youkai blood take over in dire situations . . .?”

He nodded. “There’s more. Seems like they also figured out how to counteract it—an immunization, if you will.”

She shook her head and sighed, biting her lip as she considered Griffin’s claims. “Is that really a problem nowadays? Youkai and hanyous have evolved into much more peaceful beings. The risk that a hanyou would lose himself to his youkai blood is more of an anomaly than it used to be.”

Griffin didn’t answer right away, and Isabelle, absorbed in the translation of the journal, didn’t seem to notice. “Have you ever seen a hanyou lose control like that?” he countered, his gaze flashing with an angry sort of light.

Again she shook her head. “Well, no, I can’t say I have . . .”

Griffin sighed. “Well, I have. It’s not pretty, and there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop it—except kill ‘em.”

That shocked her enough to get her attention. Of course she’d heard of it. She also thought that it was a rarity these days. She frowned, staring down at the translated text without really seeing it at all. “My grandfather . . . he had problems with it, but that was a long time ago, and he learned how to control it, himself.”

“Yeah, maybe. Some hanyous aren’t that lucky.” Shaking his head, a disgusted expression on his face, he snorted indelicately, making Isabelle wonder exactly what he _had_ seen . . . “In fact, _most_ of them that lose control can’t bring themselves back.”

There was something in his voice, wasn’t there? A level of sadness that she couldn’t possibly begin to understand . . . It made her want to reach out for him, and she might have if she thought he’d allow it. As it was, all she could do was offer him a consoling nod; a concerned expression that she hoped would suffice. ‘ _One day, Griffin . . . one day, you’ll tell me why things make you sad_ . . .’ Clearing her throat, she scratched her head thoughtfully then shrugged. “If they really found a way to counteract the effects of the youkai blood in hanyous . . . that’s huge. I mean really, _really_ huge.”

“It is,” he agreed then let out a deep breath as he rubbed his face. He looked like he wanted to say something else and was trying to find a way to state it. Hunching forward, he scowled at the floor, his elbows resting on his knees. “That guy . . . your aunt’s biological father . . . he was murdered.”

“What?”

He sighed, jerking his head toward the journal. “It says in there . . . Well, it doesn’t say it directly, but . . . It says somewhere in the beginning that Kennedy Carradine was a water youkai, remember?”

Isabelle nodded then shook her head. “But that still doesn’t mean—”

“He drowned. It says that’s how he died.   In fact, if you look up the public record, it says that he drowned.”

She still wasn’t quite ready to concede his point. “But it could have been an accident.”

“She’s a water-youkai, isn’t she?” he argued, as though it was the most reasonable question in the world.

“She? Jillian, you mean?”

“Yes, her.”

“Well, yes, but—”

Griffin snorted, plainly stating without words that he thought Isabelle was just being dense. “Then you know, right? Think about it: fire-youkai can withstand high temperatures that no one else could. Thunder-youkai can manipulate thunder powerful enough to kill another youkai. Ice-youkai can live in sub-zero temperatures without any trouble at all, and if that’s true, then it stands to reason: water-youkai _do_ — _not_ — _drown_.”

She considered that but shook her head. As convincing as Griffin’s logic was, she still wasn’t certain she bought it. “That was years ago, Griffin . . . and if that’s true, then why wasn’t something done about it back then? My grandfather—”

“—Probably didn’t know. They were trying to keep everything about this research hush-hush, and if there was a viable threat, maybe they were too scared to take it to the tai-youkai . . . or maybe they didn’t realize the threat was that great until it was too late, but it’s a fair bet that Carl Carradine figured it out, and that’s why he imbedded the bio-chip into your aunt.”

Isabelle sucked in a sharp breath. It was one of the things that bothered Jillian the most: the idea that her biological parents would deliberately put her into danger by sticking her with the bio-chip . . . “He . . . _he_ did it . . .?”

Griffin nodded at the notebook. “It’s all there.”

“But that still doesn’t explain why you think I’m in danger.”

“Who all knows you’re handling this research?”

Isabelle thought that over and flopped against the back of the sofa. “Hmm . . . just my family . . .”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Griffin pondered that then shook his head, a stubborn frown drawing his eyebrows together as he stabbed her with a ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ sort of look. “Good. Keep it that way, and . . .” he trailed off with a marked grimace, “and there’s no help for it, I suppose.”

“No help for what?”

He grunted, and she blinked in surprise when his already foreboding expression turned even more menacing. “I packed up some of your things and brought them over. You’re not going back home until I’m sure you’re safe.”

“You . . . moved me in . . .?”

He rolled his eyes and shot off the sofa to pace the floor. “No,” he blurted quickly, his cheeks darkening as blood rushed to the surface. Isabelle nearly laughed despite the gravity of the situation. “I mean, not really. You’re just staying here until—”

“Until you’re sure I’m safe. You _do_ care, don’t you?” Unable to stave back the brilliant smile that surfaced, she suddenly laughed, which, in turn, darkened Griffin’s already formidable scowl. “And here I thought you despised me.”

His cheeks reddened a little more—an entirely endearing thing, all things considered. “Just because I don’t like you doesn’t mean I want you to die—though I suppose I’d be a lot less annoyed on a day-to-day basis.”

Why did she have the feeling that despite his gruff attitude and his prickly demeanor that he really was concerned about her wellbeing? She smiled. She couldn’t help it. “I still think you’re blowing it all out of proportion,” she remarked.

“I don’t think so,” he said slowly. “Your grandfather said that this guy—this Dr. Avis—wasn’t a threat, right? That he wouldn’t hurt anyone?”

“That’s right.”

Griffin nodded. “All right. So if you take that at face value, then ask yourself: why would a peaceable man go to the trouble of kidnapping your aunt? Peaceable men don’t go around considering abduction unless they’re not what they appear to be or unless someone else puts them up to it.”

Isabelle drew herself up proudly, unable to brush aside the obvious slur against Cain Zelig. “My grandfather is an _excellent_ judge of character,” she informed him brusquely.

“I didn’t disagree. Didn’t you say that Dr. Avis disappeared?”

“No, I said—”

The look he shot her was positively gloating. “You said that he’s been gone when your aunt’s tried to visit him. He’s disappeared.”

Isabelle wasn’t ready to concede that easily. “Disappeared? Because he hasn’t been home a couple of days? That . . . that doesn’t make any sense!”

“Doesn’t it? If Dr. Avis wasn’t really the mastermind, then his getting caught would be a definite threat to whoever was pulling the strings from the shadows, don’t you think? If that’s the case, then the one in charge wouldn’t want the doctor around to let anything slip, would he?”

The unmistakable throbbing of a growing headache pounded behind Isabelle’s eyes, and she quickly rubbed her temples in a vain effort to stave it off. “But what you’re saying . . . You really believe it, don’t you? You really believe I’m . . . that someone would . . .?”

He grimaced and shook his head, draping his hands on his hips. “I’m saying it’s possible—very possible. I’m saying that I’d rather know that you and the research are safe. That’s all.”

A distinct shiver ran up her back as she let his claims sink in. If he was right in his deduction that Dr. Avis was nothing more than a pawn to someone far more powerful . . .

“Look . . . you said so, yourself. This research . . . the idea of counteracting the negative effects of the youkai blood in hanyous . . . it’s a big deal, right?”

She nodded but remained silent. Struggling to assimilate all that she’d been told, she felt oddly thick-headed, dull.

Griffin sighed, raking his hands through his shaggy brown hair. “I wasn’t trying to scare you,” he finally said, his tone grudgingly apologetic. “I just . . . I think you’re safer here.”

Again she nodded. Digging her cell phone out of her purse, she flipped it open and started to dial Cain’s phone number.

“If you call him,” Griffin said, stopping momentarily on his way out of the living room, “he’ll pull you off the project.”

Her thumb stilled, poised over the ‘connect’ button. “He wouldn’t,” she said though her tone didn’t sound very positive.

“You don’t think so? And here I thought you were smart . . .”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Griffin’s head snapped to the side, an incredulous expression obliterating any other emotion. “You’re not really that dense, are you?”

She wrinkled her nose but snapped her phone closed. “Maybe I am,” she admitted.

“Do you honestly think he’d have handed over the research if he thought you’d be in danger because of it?”

She didn’t answer that, either. She didn’t have to. Griffin knew the truth, even if she was loath to admit as much.

“Go ahead, and call him. Save me the trouble of babysitting you,” he goaded, and for reasons that Isabelle didn’t quite understand she had the feeling that he was deliberately trying to draw out her stubborn streak.

Even so, knowing what he was doing and ignoring it were two entirely different things. “I don’t need a babysitter,” she informed him haughtily. “I’m not as helpless as you’d like to think.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he mumbled. “Anyway, just don’t make yourself too at home—and just to remind you: you’re still expected to abide by the terms I set down when I agreed to help you, in the first place.”

“I know; I know . . . no hitting on you. Strictly business, but need I remind you that you’re the one who insisted I move in?” she remarked, raising her voice since he’d headed toward the kitchen.

“You’re not moving in,” he shot back. “You’re just staying here temporarily. That’s _all_.”

Isabelle sighed, smiling wanly as Froofie nudged her hand with his cold, wet nose. As much as she’d love to engage in the usual round of verbal banter, she just couldn’t. Griffin’s concern was far too fresh in her mind, and though it frightened her, she couldn’t help but feel as though there was more to his worry than he was willing to admit, that maybe he really did care more than he’d ever wanted to. What was it that her father had once told her? “ _The promise to protect someone isn’t one that is given lightly. It comes in all forms, and sometimes you have to listen carefully to hear it. The one who promises to protect you . . . He’ll be your mate_.”

Isabelle mulled that over, rehashing Griffin’s words in her head. “ _I wasn’t trying to scare you. I just . . . I think you’ll be safer here_ . . .”

‘ _Was that . . . the promise . . .?_ ’

‘ _Is that what you think?_ ’ her youkai blood challenged.

‘ _I . . . I don’t know_ . . .’

Griffin stomped back into the living room with a mug of herbal tea in his right hand, and he stopped beside her long enough to swipe the journal and notebook away from her before lumbering toward his desk.

A slow smile spread over Isabelle’s features as she watched Griffin settle himself into the sturdy chair before slumping over the journal once more. The sudden warmth swept through her, leaving her feeling weak, breathless . . . and unaccountably happy when, by rights, she ought to be quivering in fear if what Griffin believed really was true.

“It’s rude to stare,” he grumbled without turning around.

The edges of his ears were bright red, and she smashed her fist against her lips to keep from laughing out loud. “Sorry,” she apologized, sounding anything but contrite.

He snorted.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Will you listen if I say, ‘no’?” he countered.

“How did you get those scars? The ones on your face?”

His back stiffened, and his head jerked up. He sat stock still for a long moment before clearing his throat and turning his attention back to the journal once more. “None of your business.”

Isabelle pushed herself to her feet and ambled over to lean on the side of the desk. “I’ll bet you got them doing something incredibly heroic,” she said. “Let me guess: you were rescuing a little lost kitty from a tree, and the cat clawed you, throwing you off balance, so you lost your hold and got scratched by a bunch of branches on the way down.”

He snorted. “. . . Yes.”

She laughed at the dryness in his reply. “I _knew_ it!”

“Hardly.”

“Hmm, then did you—?”

“No more guesses,” he cut in.

She heaved a melodramatic sigh and bit her lip as she stared at the configuration of scars on his hands—both of them. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him about them, but she figured that she’d better not press her luck. After all, she’d be able to ask him another time. They’d be spending a lot of time together, wouldn’t they?

“You know, Dr. Griffin, I think you’ll love having me here. In fact, I aim to make sure you do.”

His pen paused for the briefest of moments. She wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been staring at his hands. “Fat chance, and I could have sworn I told you it’s Dr. _Marin_.”

“I will, and you did.”

He shifted his gaze to the side then slowly shook his head. “Hell, I think I’m already regretting it.”

She laughed and leaned over, propping elbows on the desk and resting her chin on her balled-up fists. “You might as well face it: we’re inevitable.”

“And you’re delusional. No flirting with me, remember?”

“I wasn’t flirting,” she protested with a wink. “I was stating fact, and you might as well get used to it.”

Griffin didn’t reply to that. Hunching further over the journal, he set about ignoring her.

Isabelle laughed, taking pity on the poor man and straightening up, gesturing at Froofie to follow her so that she could let him outside. “You’ll see, Dr. Griffin. You’ll see . . .”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _… Was that the promise that Papa told me about …?_


	8. Truce

‘ _Admit it: it’s not that awful, having a houseguest_.’

‘ _It is. It’s torture,_ ’ Griffin retorted.

‘ _You wish! You’re just irritated because you didn’t sleep well last night—not that I blame you. It’s dangerous, isn’t it? Knowing that she’s in the same house just across the hall_ . . .’

‘ _I knew I should have bought a bigger house_.’

‘ _Do you think she wears anything to sleep in?_ ’

Choking on a healthy swig of dandelion tea, Griffin scowled at the rising sun, wiping a dribble of tea off his chin with the back of his hand. ‘ _The last thing I want or need to know is what that woman wears to sleep in_.’

‘ _Yeah, you’re right . . . that would be even more distracting, don’t you think?_ ’

‘. . . _Shut up_.’

Griffin was saved from further rebuttal by the incessant scratching coming from the other side of the door. The dog had wanted to follow him outside but Griffin hadn’t let him. Some dogs liked to chase other animals, and he enjoyed his mornings spent with the squirrels too much to risk letting the dog out while they were enjoying their breakfast.

He snorted. That was another thing, wasn’t it? Why on earth would she have given the dog such a blatantly girlish name? It was unfathomable. Either she really loved or really hated him. Griffin was inclined to think that she hadn’t realized just how ridiculous that name really was . . . In any case, there was simply no way he could bring himself to call the animal by the outrageous name she’d bestowed upon him.

‘ _Anyway, Griffin_ . . .’

He sipped the tea, mentally bracing himself for whatever nonsense his youkai was about to spout. ‘. . . _What?_ ’

‘ _Why did you insist that she stay here if you, as you say, can’t stand her?_ ’

‘ _I can’t. She’s a pain in my ass_.’

‘ _Yeah, yeah . . . so why keep a pain in the ass underfoot?_ ’

He didn’t respond to that right away. Letting his gaze come to rest on two of the squirrels who were busy plucking the dried corn off one of the cobs he’d set out, he sighed. Somehow his morning ritual wasn’t nearly as calming as it normally was . . . ‘ _She’s in danger, whether her family sees it or not_.’

‘ _True enough, but you know better than anyone that the power of the tai-youkai is nothing to be scoffed at, don’t you?_ ’

‘ _I know nothing of_ this _tai-youkai_ ,’ he rebuked coldly.

‘ _You know very well that he is_ his _son. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?_ ’

‘. . . _Maybe. Even then, they have the same proof in front of them that I’ve got, and they haven’t figured it out for themselves_.’

‘ _You know, that’s not entirely true. There were things in that journal that they probably don’t know, and if you’d have let Isabelle tell them_ —’

‘ _She’s too stubborn to let herself be protected. She’s a walking, talking disaster just waiting to happen_.’

‘ _Then why didn’t you let her call him?_ ’

Griffin’s frown deepened. Why, indeed . . .? If he’d simply let her call Cain Zelig when she’d started to, he wouldn’t have to worry about her, would he? The trouble was that he’d known deep down that if she’d told him—if she’d explained everything to him that Griffin had told her, the research would have been taken away from her, deemed too dangerous for Isabelle to handle.

‘ _Don’t make it sound so noble, Griffin. You’re not honestly going to try to put a nice face on it, are you?_ ’

‘ _Don’t know what you’re talking about_ ,’ Griffin grumbled. ‘ _There’s nothing else to it_.’

‘ _Right . . . you know, don’t you? If she’d told Zelig, she’d have had to tell him who was translating the information sooner or later since they might have let her finish that much, at least. No, eventually she’d have told them about you, and that would serve little purpose other than opening a can of worms that is best left on a forgotten shelf_.’

Griffin set the now-tepid tea aside and sighed.   ‘ _Yeah_ ,’ he admitted, a certain resignation seeping into his tone. ‘ _Either way, it’s just a matter of time_ . . .’

‘ _Maybe_.’

‘ _Can’t run from your past forever, right? You can’t run . . . and you can’t atone_ . . .’

The vague imagery of burning land; of the stench of death; of the grossly distorted silhouettes flashed through his mind . . . the sound of a little girl’s voice, crying out to him . . .

He shook his head to dispel the powerful sense of melancholy; of hopelessness that he just couldn’t escape. It really was simply a matter of time, and he’d known that when he’d agreed to help her with the translation. All of his sins would come to light.

And then . . .

And then those smiles, that laughter that Isabelle gave so freely . . . those things that Griffin had to keep at bay . . .

Those would disappear, wouldn’t they? When she figured out that he was worse than a childhood nightmare, that he’d done things—terrible things . . . things he couldn’t hide, and things that for which he’d never be forgiven . . .

Then she would despise him, and he . . . He deserved her antipathy, didn’t he . . .?

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“You know, as much as I complain about days like yesterday when I can’t even get a moment to catch my breath, at least the clock moves faster,” Kiley Fortham remarked as she sipped coffee out of a white Styrofoam cup and adjusted the stethoscope that hung around her neck.

Isabelle nodded, filling a cup with the slightly burnt brew. “I know what you mean,” she agreed. “At least my shift’s almost over . . .”

“Yeah . . . you want to get a drink after work?”

“Uh, not tonight,” Isabelle said, smiling apologetically. “I promised a friend that I’d head straight home.”

“You’re too young to be a homebody,” Margaret, the middle-aged, head nurse, remarked as she gently moved Isabelle aside to pour a cup of coffee for herself. “You should be out meeting young men and enjoying life.”

“Well, there’s something to be said for spending a nice, quiet evening at home,” Isabelle hedged with a smile. “A good book . . . a roaring fire . . . a sexy man . . .”

Margaret leveled a no-nonsense look at her as she lifted the steaming cup to her lips. “Not in that order, I hope.”

Isabelle laughed. “I’ll take them in whatever order I can get them,” she quipped.

Margaret heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I would, too,” she agreed wistfully. “Nowadays I’m lucky if my ‘quiet night at home’ doesn’t involve running one of the kids to practice or stain-treating the white laundry before tossing it in the washer . . .” She made a face, glowering at the cup of coffee in her hand. “Ugh! Who made this sludge? It’s _terrible!_ ”

“Aw, and I thought it was one of my better pots,” Kiley drawled with a good-natured smile, tucking a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear.

Margaret blinked and pasted on an overly bright smile. “Oh, _you_ made it? Then it _was_ good,” she agreed.

Isabelle laughed. True enough, of all the things that the young resident doctor was good at, making coffee was just not one of them. In fact, the only person Isabelle knew who consistently made worse coffee was her cousin, Morio . . .

“So I’ll never catch a husband with my coffee-making skills,” Kiley remarked, a pretty blush staining her pale cheeks as she ducked her head and shrugged. “There are other things I’m good at, or so I’ve been told . . .”

“There’s something to be said for that,” Margaret replied then sighed. “God, I miss having sex . . .”

Isabelle nearly choked on a swig of coffee. Despite how long as she’d known the older woman, she still couldn’t help but be amused whenever dear, sweet Margaret said something of the more risqué nature. Margaret rubbed her back and laughed. “Just because it’s slow in here today doesn’t mean that you really need to give us something else to do,” she chided though her smile was gentle.

Isabelle opened her mouth to respond, but was cut short when Hillary, the girl who was covering the reception desk today, dashed into the room, breathing heavily as she clung to the door frame. “Got a patient,” she said breathlessly. “A boy: Brandon Lincoln. Fell out of a tree, and looks like he might have broken his wrist.”

“I’ll get it,” Isabelle volunteered, tossing her cup into the garbage can as she strode past it, unconsciously reaching up to make sure her stethoscope was still slung around her neck as she glanced at her watch and took the clipboard from Hillary’s grasp in passing. “How old is he?” she asked as Hillary hurried to catch up with her.

“Four. His parents are on their way.”

Sparing a moment to glance at the receptionist, Isabelle shook her head before returning her attention to the clipboard once more. “Then who brought him in?”

“His teacher. They were on a nature hike, and Brandon decided to climb a tree, instead.”

“I see . . .” Trailing off, Isabelle stopped short, blinking when she spotted the child held securely in the arms of his . . . teacher . . .? “Griffin?” she blurted, brushing aside the odd sense of surprise that had assailed her.

Griffin grimaced and muttered something to the little boy in his arms. “I-I think he broke his arm,” he said, his voice thick with emotion though his expression hadn’t changed.

She nodded slowly and inclined her head as she smiled at the frightened-looking child. He wasn’t crying, though, and that was a good sign, and his color, while a bit peaked, was good. “Hi. I’m Dr. Izayoi. You must be Brandon.”

The boy sniffled and nodded, whimpering slightly when Griffin adjusted his grip.

“Okay. Let’s go see what we can do.”

She turned on her heel and led the way back to one of the examination rooms. Ordinarily, something as routine as a broken arm would simply be dealt with in one of the curtained-off areas, but given the boy’s age and the lack of more serious cases, Isabelle figured that it would be best to utilize one of the rooms, instead.

Griffin followed her and sat in one of the stiff-backed chairs with Brandon. “It’s not really a life-threatening situation, so I can’t do much of anything until after his parents get here,” she explained as she knelt down in front of them, “but I can take a look at it for now . . . would that be alright with you, Brandon?”

Brandon frowned at her like he was measuring her up in his mind, his lips and nostrils quivering though he didn’t cry. His arm was very swollen—he at least had a nasty sprain—but he stole a glance up at Griffin, and upon seeing the bear-youkai nod once, Brandon drew a deep breath and nodded, too.

She spared a minute to check his vital signs. He didn’t look like he was in danger of going into shock, but that hardly mattered. He was holding up really well. His pulse was slightly elevated; no small wonder, considering . . .

Isabelle gently felt the limb, carefully monitoring his expression for any signs that she might be hurting him. He whimpered when she neared his wrist, and she pulled her hand away and smiled. “Yep, you broke it,” she informed him. “It feels like a clean break, though, which means that it will heal a lot faster than it would otherwise.”

“Do I get a cast?” Brandon asked suddenly, inclining his head as though he were considering the idea for the first time.

“Yes, I think you probably will . . . when your mama and papa get here, I’ll have one of the nurses take you to get pictures of your arm so we can see your bones.”

His eyes widened incredulously. “You can see my _bones?_ ”

She laughed and winked at the boy. “Absolutely. Don’t worry, Brandon. You’ll be out of here in no time.”

“Dr. Izayoi? Do you need me?”

Glancing over in time to see Nell Buckman, one of the nurses, lean into the room, Isabelle waved her hand and shrugged. “Not really . . . would you mind calling and letting x-ray know that I’ll be sending Brandon down shortly? Fractured arm.”

Nell nodded and winked at Brandon before ducking out of the room again.

She braced herself against her knees and pushed herself to her feet once more, pausing for a long moment when she intercepted the grudging thanks that lit the depths of Griffin’s gaze. “So Dr. Marin was taking your class hiking?” she asked, turning away to hide the little smile from the youkai’s discerning stare. “Did you have fun?”

“Yeah,” Brandon allowed. Isabelle glanced over her shoulder in time to see the rather disgusted way the child ducked his head. “Till I falled.”

“Hmm, well, you’ll have to be a little more careful next time, huh?”

Griffin grunted.

“I didn’t mean to fall,” Brandon grumbled.

Isabelle laughed. “No, I don’t suppose you did.”

She heard Brandon’s mother well before she saw her. The rapid approach of heels clicking against the linoleum floor announced his mother’s arrival, and with a waft of musky perfume, the woman breezed into the room, heading straight to her son. “Brandon! Oh, sweetie . . .”

Isabelle turned to face her. “Hi. I’m Dr. Izayoi,” she said with a slight smile.

“Denise Lincoln,” she replied absently and without taking her eyes off her son. She held her arms out, but Brandon shook his head quickly and held onto Griffin with his good hand. She offered a weak little laugh. “I see how it is . . .” Then she turned to face Isabelle. “I got here as quickly as I could,” she offered in lieu of an apology.

“It’s fine,” Isabelle assured her. “I did do a preliminary examination, and I can tell you that his arm is definitely broken, but I’d like to get x-rays to verify the damage, if it’s all right with you. It looks like a clean break, but I’d rather check to make sure there are not bone fragments or anything that could hinder the way his bone mends.”

She nodded. “Sure, that’s fine.” She sighed and shook her head. “My husband’s out of town this week on business . . . just figures, doesn’t it?”

Isabelle smiled. “It certainly does. Is Brandon allergic to any kind of medication? To any anesthetics?”

“Oh, uh, no . . . At least, not that I know of. He’s never really had to be on medicine before. Well, Tylenol aside . . .”

“Okay . . . good. You holding up all right, Brandon?” she asked with a reassuring smile.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I’m big.”

Isabelle grinned. “You certainly are.”

Nell strode back into the room with a wheelchair and a bright smile. “Okay, they’re waiting for you. How about I take you down there?” she offered.

Brandon stole a glance up at Griffin. Griffin nodded once and stood up, carefully setting Brandon down in the wheelchair. “Bone pictures . . . that’s pretty neat,” he mumbled.

Brandon’s expression lit up at the approval in Griffin’s voice. “Can I keep a bone picture?” he asked as Nell wheeled him out of the room.

Nell laughed. Isabelle didn’t hear her answer.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll wait out there,” Griffin said, face flushing slightly as he headed for the door, too.

“Wait, Dr. Marin,” Denise called. Griffin stopped in the doorway, carefully keeping his face turned slightly; just enough to keep the woman from looking at his scars, Isabelle supposed.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Griffin half-mumbled, half-growled as the red in his face deepened a little more. “I can pay for it . . .”

Denise waved her hand as though his offer was ridiculous. “No, no! Thanks, but we’ve got pretty good insurance, and he’s a little daredevil, anyway . . . I just wanted to say thank you for bringing him in and everything. Brandon loves Mondays, you know. He says you’re his favorite teacher.”

‘ _Mondays?_ ’ Isabelle thought as her eyes widened in surprise. ‘ _Then that means he does this sort of thing all the time . . .?_ ’

“He’s a good cub,” Griffin muttered then turned to go.

Denise sighed, and when Isabelle looked at her, it was to find the woman smiling despite the haggard lines creasing at the corners of her eyes. “He’s a godsend, really,” she commented, dusting her hands together and heaving a tired sigh.

“Oh?” Isabelle asked, scrutinizing the information on the emergency report carefully.

“Yeah . . . they were going to close the preschool, you see: short on staff . . . Dr. Marin heard about it, and he volunteered to take the children on Mondays to teach them about nature. The kids love it.”

Nodding slowly, Isabelle couldn’t help the warm little smile that quirked her lips. “I’ll bet,” she agreed.

“Excuse me . . . Mrs. Lincoln? There are a few papers we need you to sign when you have a minute,” Hillary said as she breezed into the room.

“Oh, I can get those now,” Denise offered.

Isabelle nodded at Hillary and bit her lip as she watched the women hurry out of the room. She had to admit that it had surprised her to see Griffin with Brandon in his arms, and yet . . .

And yet, hadn’t she sensed it, herself? Despite the gruff exterior, she’d known from the start. Griffin Marin was a gentle man beneath it all. It was one of the things that had drawn her to him in the beginning, and the more she found out about him, the more she wanted to know . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“He’ll be okay, right?”

Isabelle nodded and stole a glance at Griffin as the car idled at an intersection in the middle of Bangor. Staring at his hands, his long bangs hanging down like a veil that hid his expression from her. She resisted the urge to reach over and brush his hair out of his face, figuring that doing so would very likely get her in trouble or worse. “Sure. It was a clean break. In a few weeks, you won’t even know that he’d ever broken it, in the first place.

Griffin grunted in response, but didn’t look up. It was telling enough that he hadn’t once argued with her when she’d offered to drive him home after she’d finished putting Brandon’s arm in a cast.

“Accidents happen, you know. If they didn’t, I wouldn’t have a job.”

This time, he did look at her. Well, he _scowled_ at her. “That’s hardly amusing,” he growled.

She sighed. “Relax, Dr. G. Brandon will be fine; I promise.”

“D-D-Dr. G.?” he stammered. Isabelle didn’t have to glance at him to know that he was turning a very nice shade of red. “ _Dr. G.?_ ”

“Sure. It stands for—”

“I _know_ what it stands for, girly, and I don’t _like_ it, either.”

She wisely hid her amusement. “What would you rather that I called you?”

He snorted. “Dr. _Marin_ would suffice,” he growled.

“Oh, come on, now. I’m _living_ with you, and—”

“Not by choice,” he mumbled.

“—I would think that should be more than enough for us to be on a first name basis, don’t you think?”

He snorted but didn’t answer.

“Anyway, you were really sweet with Brandon. I think I love you even more than I did before . . . will you be that sweet with our pups?”

He snorted again. “Never happen.”

“Oh, come now, Griffin . . . it’s not that bad. After all, making the babies is a hell of a lot of fun . . .”

“Please,” he growled, turning his attention out the passenger-side window as his face reddened once again.

“No, really! Who would have thought that a grumpy Pooh-bear like you would be so patient with children?”

“A grumpy— _what?_ ”

“Pooh-bear,” Isabelle stated again. “You know . . . AA Milne’s classic children’s character . . .? He lived deep in the Hundred Acre Wood where Christopher Robin played . . .”

He opened his mouth but snapped it closed again as indignant color blossomed in his cheeks.

She relented lest he should decide that he’d endured enough teasing for one day. Unfortunately, she couldn’t quite help the smile that just wouldn’t go away, either . . . It felt so natural—so _normal_ —simply being with him; teasing him. Somewhere deep down, he had to know it, too, didn’t he?

‘ _I wouldn’t be so certain of that, Isabelle. It could be nothing more than wishful thinking, you know_.’

‘ _No_ . . .’ Isabelle countered, casting Griffin a sidelong glance. She could only see his profile, and he didn’t look quite as upset anymore. At least her methods had worked in that respect . . . ‘ _Griffin . . . he can feel it, too. I_ know _he can._ ’

‘ _Even if he does, he’s not about to admit it_ ,’ her youkai pointed out.

Isabelle heaved a sigh, refusing to allow her youkai voice to put a damper on the pleasant feeling of Griffin-inspired warmth that surged through her. ‘ _Yeah, yeah . . . you’ll have to eat those words eventually_.’

‘ _And I’d be happy to, but you know, you have your work cut out for you_.’

‘ _And I wouldn’t have it any other way_ ,’ she decided. ‘ _After all, does anyone really appreciate anything that’s just handed over on the proverbial silver platter . . .?_ ’

‘ _No, I suppose they don’t_.’

“Stop at the grocery store,” Griffin said suddenly though he didn’t look at her.

“Grocery? All right . . . going to break down and buy some real food?” she asked, quirking her eyebrow since she’d spent the better portion of last evening complaining about the serious lack of anything non-organic in Griffin’s kitchen.

He snorted. “Charlie needs food.”

“Charlie? Who’s Charlie?”

Griffin shook his head. “Your dog.”

“My dog?” she echoed.

“Yes, your dog.”

She laughed. “He has a name; it’s Froofie.”

“That’s not a name,” Griffin shot back as Isabelle hung a left into the grocery store parking lot. “It’s a torture device.”

“He likes it!” she protested.

“No, he doesn’t. _You_ like it, but you’re not him—and you’re a little demented.”

“Ah, so now you’re channeling dogs? Impressive, Dr. G . . . Very impressive, indeed . . .”

He shot her a menacing glance that only served to heighten Isabelle’s misplaced amusement. “Listen, you—”

“Okay, okay,” she giggled, waving her hand dismissively. “I’m just kidding . . . I’m sorry . . .”

He shot her a suspicious glance. “Somehow I don’t think you are,” he complained.

Isabelle didn’t argue it with him.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Final Thought from Griffin** :_   
>  _… Dr. G…?_


	9. Transient Truths

_The smoke was thick—so very thick. His eyes throbbed, burned from the acrid smoke that infiltrated every pore on his body as he staggered through the debris. Unable to grasp the fleeting idea that the desecration that he was forced to witness was all that remained of the peaceful little village, he shook his head, rubbed his temple with his blood-stained claws_.

 _Wiping away the fine gray dust that clung to his cheeks, he coughed so violently that he fell to his knees in the middle of the village near the well. The desolate sounds of cracking timber; of falling rooftops and groaning structures rang in his ears; loud like thunder, and he smashed his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes closed as he fought to understand . . . or was he simply trying to forget_. . .?

 _Opening his eyes, he blinked in confusion as he stared at the body on the ground before him. Slowly—so slowly—he reached out; pushed the man’s shoulder to get his attention. He lilted from side to side but didn’t react. Swallowing hard, he pushed the village headman a little harder, and the man rolled to the side. Tongue hanging out of his slack mouth, skin leeched of color as his hair stuck to the blood-soaked ground, he seemed to mock him, didn’t he?   Staring into the blank, dull eyes of the dead man, he uttered a harsh little cry—not quite a sob, not quite a groan—and fell back, pushing with his feet in a concerted effort to get away from the macabre vision. He couldn’t escape the body that was laying askew, legs bent and twisted at odd angles; his face was frozen in a grimace of pain, a mask of fear_.

 _Uttering a smothered whimper, he rolled to his knees, shrinking away from the body of one of the village’s women. She, like the headman, seemed to be caught in a silent scream, and he choked out a terrified sound as he turned on his heels, nearly tripping over his own clumsy feet. His body ached. He could feel his blood seeping through the tattered remnants of his clothing, clinging to him, cloying at him, and he ran_ . . .

With a sharp gasp, Griffin sat up, clutching his chest with a shaking hand. His heart hammered hard against his ribcage, and he squeezed his eyes closed as the remnants of the nightmare fought to stifle him. Body drenched in a cold sweat, the thin cotton shirt he wore clung to his skin in an entirely unpleasant way, bringing to mind even more of the memories that he couldn’t help but remember. He gulped hard, smashed his fists against his eyelids as he tried to force himself to calm down. ‘ _God . . . oh, God_ . . .’

It never went away, did it? It wouldn’t, and he knew it as certainly as he knew anything in his life. It was all transient, those truths that he tried to hide, and he was weary . . .

Pushing himself to his feet, he staggered out of the bedroom and down the darkened hallway to the bathroom and slipped inside. The harsh light from the fixture over the sink made him grimace, and he blinked for a minute while his eyes adjusted to the incursion. His face was drawn, pale, lips quivering as he drew a succession of unsteady breaths. The white shirt was translucent with the dampness of his sweat, and with a sigh, he fumbled with the buttons before yanking it off and tossing it into the hamper beside the sink.

He turned away from the mirror and turned on the water taps. Sinking down on the closed toilet seat, he slumped forward, burying his face in his hands. He hated mirrors, didn’t he? Hated to look at himself; hated to see . . .

Stripping off the rest of his clothes, he climbed into the tub and pulled the white plastic shower curtain closed, letting the tepid water wash away the lingering remnants of the dream—of the nightmare.

‘ _It was worse than normal, wasn’t it . . .?_ ’

Gritting his teeth at the softly voiced question, Griffin reached for the bar of Ivory soap and concentrated on washing instead of answering.

‘ _Maybe it was simply the stress of the day._ ’

‘ _The stress . . .?_ ’ he echoed almost absently, scowling down at his chest. His fingertips brushed over the puckered flesh, the conflagration of scar tissue that traversed his skin, and he barked out a terse, humorless laugh. ‘ _Stress_ . . .’

‘ _Brandon will be fine. It was just a broken arm_.’

Griffin snorted. ‘ _How can you say it was just a broken arm, like it was nothing at all? Humans are weak, aren’t they? Weak and . . . and_ . . .’

His youkai sighed. ‘ _Weak and easily killed. I know._ You _know. Like it or not, that’s the way of it, though. There’s not much you can do about it, and even if you could, would it really be right?_ ’

‘ _And what’s that supposed to mean?_ ’

‘ _You can’t change the world. You tried that once before—maybe not in the exact same way, but close enough, don’t you think?_ ’

‘ _That’s not what I_. . .’ He grimaced. ‘ _It wasn’t like that_.’

‘ _Wasn’t it? It’s not such a horrible thing . . . a little idealistic, especially coming from the likes of you, and rather misguided though you tried, but not horrible, either_.’

Shutting off the shower taps and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Griffin shoved the curtain aside and reached for a towel. At the rate he was going, he was going to remember every single moment of his life that he’d rather not think about, and all before the sun rose.

It didn’t take him long to dry off and get dressed, tugging on the clothes that he’d carefully hung on the back of the bathroom door just before heading to bed. He caught sight of his scar-ridden chest as he buttoned up his shirt and winced. Though the wounds had healed long ago, the angry welts lingered as a constant reminder of the magnified shortcomings that he couldn’t overcome.

A lifetime of mistakes . . .

Taking the time to straighten the towel over the rack after meticulously sopping up the droplets of water that had pooled around his feet after his shower, Griffin let out a deep breath as he reached for the door handle, satisfied that he felt a little more like himself; a little more in control. Going back to sleep was out of the question. He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, anyway, but his hip ached from lying in bed, in the first place. Even if he wanted to get more rest, he didn’t try to fool himself into thinking that it’d be possible. ‘ _Might as well get some work done,_ ’ he thought as he lumbered off toward the kitchen to put the kettle on to heat.

The click of claws on the hardwood floor drew Griffin’s attention, and he tilted his head to the side as Charlie padded into the room. He stopped just inside the doorway and pushed back against the floor, yawning wide as he wagged his tail a couple of times and proceeded to stretch.

“Can’t sleep either?” Griffin asked, his gruff tone as close to gentle as it ever could be.

The dog sat down, his tail sliding across the floor in a whisper of movement as his mouth dropped open to accommodate his ever-panting tongue.

“Slobber on the floor, and I’ll use you to clean it up,” Griffin warned. Charlie wagged his tail harder.

“Great . . . you’re as stupid as you are ugly,” he remarked, turning back to the stove to light the old gas burner with a match. “I think I feel sorrier for you than I do for myself . . . guess that’s something, huh?”

Charlie half-grunted and half-groaned at him as a string of foamy slobber dangled from his gaping maw.

Griffin winced, lips curling back in a mask of undisguised distaste as he quickly reached for something to catch the drool. “Ugh . . . you’re nasty,” he stated with a scowl, wiping the moisture away with a dishtowel. His sense of satisfaction for having averted dog-slobber on the floor was short-lived, though. Scowling at the towel, he shook his head and stood up, glancing meaningfully at the garbage can before striding over to the sliding doors that hid the washer and dryer from view. It would wash out, wouldn’t it . . .?

He scowled at the towel in his hand. Then again . . .

Tossing the towel into the trash can, Griffin shot the dog a narrow look before digging another cloth out of the drawer and stomping out of the kitchen. With a sigh, he grabbed the permanent marker off his desk and wrote ‘dog’ on the edge of the towel. The last thing he wanted was to dry the dishes he ate off of with a drool-infested cloth, after all, and if that wicked she-devil who considered herself to be Charlie’s owner laughed at him, he’d wipe _her_ dishes with the cloth and see how _she_ liked it . . .

Sitting down rather heavily, Griffin hunched over the translation notes. At least the journal was relatively short. He was almost finished with that. The research, he was certain, would prove to be a lot more challenging . . .

‘ _Fellowes made another offer for the research, and he didn’t take ‘no’ very well. After considerable arguing, he finally left the lab, but not before saying that we would regret our decision to keep the research to ourselves. Kennedy believes that he does not pose a viable threat. I, however, am not as sure as he is_ . . .’

“‘He’,” Griffin muttered, letting his face fall into his cupped hands with a heavy sigh. “Eaton Fellowes . . .”

The man’s name kept coming up again and again. It couldn’t be a simple coincidence, could it? He glanced at the clock: four in the morning . . . Definitely too early to make a phone call, no matter what the reason might be . . .

Jerking bolt-upright in his chair, Griffin pushed his chair back and peered down between his legs. Charlie—tank of a dog that he was—had managed to ferret his way half under the desk. His nose was cold and wet—entirely uncomfortable on Griffin’s bare feet. Staring at him for a full minute, Griffin finally stood up and grunted for Charlie to follow.

The dog padded down the hallway after him, cocking his head to the side when Griffin stopped outside Isabelle’s door. “Go bug _her_ ,” he rumbled, opening the door and gesturing for Charlie to go inside.

Charlie stretched out on the floor with his muzzle in his paws and whined.

Griffin snorted. “Don’t give me that. She’s your mistress, and I hate dogs.”

He whined a little more.

Griffin waited another minute before pulling the door closed with a sigh. “Just as annoying as her,” he mumbled under his breath as he headed for the kitchen once more. “Figures.”

The damned dog trotted along behind him.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“Gavin Jamison.”

“Hey, Gavin. How was your flight?”

Gavin smiled at the welcoming sound of Isabelle Izayoi’s warm voice and leaned to the side to set the suitcase on the floor as Jillian hurried past him with her pale pink carry-on bag. “Oh, uh, Is-Isab-belle, hi . . .” he stammered, face reddening at the mere sound of a female voice. He supposed some things just couldn’t be helped, after all . . . in the confines of his office where he worked as a stock broker, he was okay when it came to talking to women. Outside of the office, however, it was an entirely different ball game, so to speak, and Isabelle, despite her friendly demeanor, was just about as frightening a woman as there was. Confident, beautiful, smart, strong—all excellent qualities, of course—but somehow the combination of those things in her was enough to set Gavin on edge. Sure, Jillian possessed those qualities, too, but somehow they seemed so much less intimidating in her; maybe because he’d known her for so long . . . “I-i-it was good. Longer than I’d like to dwell on, but decent. How’s the translation coming?”

She sighed. He could hear the hospital intercom paging another doctor in the background. “I’m almost finished with the journal,” she said. “In fact, that’s one of the reasons I was calling . . .”

“W-what about it?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning as a sense of foreboding raced down his spine.

She laughed at the hint of trepidation rife in his tone. “Oh, nothing bad . . . I just thought you should know that Jillian’s biological parents weren’t responsible for implanting the bio-chip in her . . . according to the journal, her uncle did it after her father died and without her mother’s knowledge.”

“How is that possible?”

Isabelle sighed. “It’s entirely possible. If he told her he was doing something like, say, and amniocentesis, then he could have easily injected it into the fetus—Jillian—without her mother knowing.”

Gavin shook his head, trying to get a better understanding of exactly what Isabelle was saying. “I see . . .”

“She was upset about that, right?”

He sighed, dragging his long fingers over his face in a weary sort of way. “Yeah. Yeah, she was.”

“Good, then. You can tell her that they didn’t do it.”

He nodded, staring off in the direction of the hallway where Jillian had disappeared. “You find out anything else?”

“Not yet. I’m working on it.”

“You still don’t know exactly what they were researching?”

She paused for a moment and cleared her throat. “Not . . . _exactly_ . . .” she hedged. “I mean, I have an idea of what it was, but I’d like to make sure before I say anything. Is that all right?”

Gavin wrapped an arm over his stomach as a thoughtful expression filtered over his face. “Yeah, sure. I understand. Cuts down on conjecture . . . At least you’re making progress.”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll let Jillian know.”

“Gavin . . .?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you get to see Dr. Avis before you left?”

He sighed again, this one long and drawn out. “Uh, no . . . I’m sure everything’s okay, though . . . Cain said that his tracker is still working, and he hasn’t left Australia.”

“Can they pinpoint exactly where he is with that?”

“No. It works on international boundaries. If he left the continent, they’d know, but he’s free to do what he wants so long as he stays where he’s been exiled.”

“If Grandpa says it’s fine, then I’m sure it is,” she stated. “Anyway, I just wanted to touch base with you. My break’s over, so I’ve got to go.”

“Thanks,” Gavin said as Jillian strolled back into the living room once more. “I’ll be sure to tell her.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

Clicking the cell phone off, Gavin let it drop on the table before turning to face his mate. “That was Isabelle,” he said as Jillian slipped her arms around Gavin’s waist.

“Oh? Is everything all right?”

He nodded and kissed Jillian’s forehead. “Yeah . . . she just wanted to tell you . . . She’s translated some of the journal.”

Jillian stiffened in his arms, and Gavin winced. Any mention of the research tended to set Jillian on edge. A painful reminder, he supposed. He could only pray that this information would make her feel a little better about the entire affair . . . The idea that her biological parents would have done something that had ultimately led to her being abducted hurt her, and if there were something that he could do to lessen the upset for her, then he would, and this news . . . well, he was sure that it’d be a huge relief to her. “The journal,” Jillian repeated, her pale blue eyes clouding over moments before she buried her face against Gavin’s chest.

“The journal,” he agreed, “sort of. She wanted me to tell you that it said in there that your biological parents had nothing to do with the bio-chip. She said that they didn’t know about it, either.”

“R . . . really?” she asked, a hopeful lilt in her voice as she leaned away to stare at him. “They . . . they . . . didn’t . . .?”

He shook his head and smiled. “No.”

She swallowed hard, a sheen of tears lending a glassiness to her gaze. “So they . . .?”

“I told you that they wanted you,” he chided gently. “How could they not?”

He caught the first tear that slipped down her cheek and brought it to his lips to lick the moisture off his fingertip. It was something that she had told him long ago that her great-great-grandmother said would make a wish come true, and while he was a little too pragmatic to believe in such things, he had to admit that the idea that something as whimsical as making wishes was inviting.

‘ _I wish . . . I wish that Jilli will always smile, just for me_ . . .’

“What’d you wish for?” she asked, her voice husky from the tears that thickened in her throat.

“If I told you, it wouldn’t come true, would it?” he teased with a gentle smile.

She smiled, too—her eyes luminous, glowing with the hesitant light of cautious relief despite the tears that lingered. “I love you, Gavin Jamison.”

He sighed and pulled her close, closing his eyes as he buried his nose in her hair, as he inhaled the sweet scent of her. “I love you, too, Jilli . . . Jamison.”

“Gavin?”

“Hmm?”

“Will you . . . take me to bed?”

  
“W-I-you-oh . . . oh . . . okay,” he relented despite the scarlet flush that stained his cheeks.

Jillian giggled softly, pulling away from him only to take his hand and tug him back toward the bedroom. He couldn’t help the flush that heated his cheeks anymore than he could help the nearly instinctive reaction to tell her that he wasn’t about to do any such thing. Years of habit were so deeply ingrained in him that it would take him awhile to forget that he didn’t really have to try to put her off . . .

Of course, he had a lifetime to unlearn that, didn’t he?

And the practicing . . . well, he didn’t mind that too much, either . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Griffin held the telephone receiver to his ear and scowled at the dog who was sitting on the floor beside the reclining chair doing his best to lick Griffin’s feet. “Do it and die,” Griffin grumbled, pinning the dog with as formidable a glower as he could muster. The damned dog ignored him.

“You called me just to threaten me?”

He grimaced and pushed against the footrest, bringing the chair upright once more. “Sorry. Wasn’t talking to you.”

Attean Masta chuckled, the sound muffled slightly by the phone connection. “It’s been awhile. How are you?”

Catching the phone between his ear and his shoulder, Griffin planted his hands on the arms of the chair to push himself to his feet. “Not bad,” he replied. “How’s Maria?”

“She’s fine; fine . . . tell me why you called?”

He let Charlie into the back yard and closed the door with a sigh. “I can’t just call to see how you are?”

“You could,” Attean agreed slowly, “but you don’t. So tell me, what’s the trouble?”

“I, uh . . . I need your help.”

“My help,” Attean mused. “Must be big. You never accept _anyone’s_ help.”

“That’s not true,” Griffin grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I let you and Maria help me before.”

“With complete ill-grace, if memory serves . . .”

Griffin made a face. However true that might be, it held very little bearing on the current need for assistance. “You ever heard of a guy named Eaton Fellowes?”

“Hmm, no . . . can’t say I have. I can ask around . . .”

“Yeah, please.”

“Please, even. Wow . . . Interesting . . .”

“Not that interesting,” Griffin argued. “Anyway, I need to know where he is . . . I need to know anything you can find out about him.”

“You don’t believe in asking for small favors, do you?” Attean teased then sighed as he pondered Griffin’s request. “Consider it done, but answer one question.”

Griffin grimaced and let his breath out with a whoosh. He didn’t wait to hear the question, either. He knew Attean far too well not to know exactly what the hanyou was going to say. “I can’t go into detail. Suffice it to say that he . . . he might pose a threat.”

Attean didn’t answer right away, and when he finally did, Griffin winced at the overstated nonchalance in his tone. “To you?”

He snorted. “Like I’d give a damn if he were after me.”

“I see.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if it weren’t important.”

Attean sat back in his chair—Griffin could hear it squeak and groan in the background. “So this guy’s threatening someone else . . . All right . . . going to tell me who?”

“No.”

“Didn’t figure you would. Do you have any information to go on?”

Griffin sighed. “Uh . . . Colorado, near Denver. He was in that area about twenty-five years ago, give or take. Youkai from what I gathered. I don’t know what kind.”

“That’s pretty vague. Eaton Fellowes, right?”

He nodded, idly scratching Charlie just behind the ears. “Yeah. That’s the name he was using at the time, at least.”

“So it could be an alias.”

Griffin grunted since Attean’s statement was a bit ridiculous in his mind. “Any of us who’ve lived longer than eighty or a hundred years have those.”

“I suppose . . . but some of us use more _legal_ aliases. In any case, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one. Anyway, thanks.”

His friend sighed. “Sure. Don’t mention it. Do me a favor?”

“If I can.”

Attean chuckled, not surprised in the least that Griffin would refuse to commit himself concretely without hearing him out first. “Never make a promise you don’t know if you can keep, right?”

“Something like that.”

Attean chuckled. “Give Maria a call sometime. She worries about you. For some reason, she _likes_ you.”

“Yeah, if I have time,” he said though his tone was noncommittal at best.

Attean relented since that was as much of a promise as Griffin ever made. “Good enough.”

“Call me when you find out anything.”

“Absolutely.”

The line went dead, and Griffin pushed the ‘talk’ button to close the connection before setting the phone on the counter. If anyone could get the information on Eaton Fellowes, Attean could. He’d been working for the better part of the last hundred years as a private investigator under various aliases, and he was very good at what he did.

‘ _Don’t be ridiculous. You know damn well that there are at least a couple others who could have come up with the information and probably faster, if you want my honest opinion_.’

‘ _There are?_ ’

‘ _Sure . . . it’s no secret—at least amongst our kind—that the future North American and Japanese tai-youkai do that sort of thing. Youkai special crimes, it’s called, isn’t it?_ ’

‘ _Maybe_ ,’ Griffin grudgingly allowed, ‘ _but they’d want to know everything_.’

‘ _Right . . . right . . . and if you told them everything, they’d snatch the research out from under your nose . . . and Isabelle, too, for that matter_.’

‘ _I don’t care about that woman_.’

‘ _Awfully brave talk, don’t you think?_ ’

‘ _It’s the truth_.’

‘ _Sure it is—during the day when the sun’s shining and the demons have retreated to the shadows_.’

‘ _Since when do you wax poetic about anything?_ ’

‘ _I don’t . . . but it sounded good, don’t you think?_ ’

Griffin snorted and rubbed his forehead. He’d suffered a headache all day, ever since waking in the middle of the night with his body drenched in a cold sweat.

‘ _You should have asked him about suppressing the nightmares_ ,’ his youkai voice spoke up.

Griffin lumbered over to the door to make sure that Charlie was behaving. Chasing his tail around in circles, he looked like he was having the time of his life, and Griffin couldn’t help the trace of a smile that twitched on his lips.

‘ _I don’t need him to do that again_ ,’ he maintained with a stubborn shake of his head.

‘ _Then why did the idea cross your mind, in the first place?_ ’

He sighed. True enough. For the briefest of seconds, he had considered asking Attean to perform the ritual that would help to suppress the dreams once more. He’d done it the first time, just after finding Griffin. The nightmares back then were so awful that they’d leave him feeling as though something inside him was dying every time he closed his eyes.

It had worked well enough since then. He’d only had a few instances of the recurring dreams, but the one he’d suffered last night had been the worst he could remember since that time . . . It was so real, like he was there in that time and in that place . . .

Rubbing his eyes with a slightly shaking hand, Griffin swallowed hard and turned away from the door. Weariness seeped into his very bones: weariness that had nothing at all to do with the interrupted sleep he’d suffered the night before. No, it was an unvoiced thing, an entity that was constantly lingering just out of sight . . .

His secrets were coming back to haunt him, weren’t they? Only this time, Attean and Maria . . . They wouldn’t be able to save him . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Gavin_** :  
>  _So they didn’t have anything to do with the bio-chip ...?_


	10. Pooh Bear

Isabelle pulled the door closed behind her and let out a long sigh. Dropping her purse on the small table as she kicked off her shoes on the tiny indoor-outdoor mat beside the stand, she glanced at her watch: nearly five a.m.

Froofie didn’t run to greet her. That figured. It seemed that the dog she adored had decided that he much preferred Griffin. In the few weeks since she’d moved in with the man, she’d come to realize that Froofie could be more fickle than any woman ever could be.

She sighed. There was no help for it, she supposed. At least Froofie had good taste, after all . . .

The living room was quiet in the thin light of the rising sun that was just starting to filter through the windows, casting everything in a pallid sort of grayish hue that lent a certain melancholy to the world at large. Isabelle stopped in the doorway as a gentle smile quirked her lips, lighting the depths of her eyes as she leaned against the frame, a soft giggle slipping from her but not loudly enough to disrupt the silence.

Griffin sat in the ratty old recliner with his feet kicked up and his hands clasped on his chest, holding a notebook in place. The journal peeked up beside him. It had obviously slipped off his chest when he’d fallen asleep. Froofie was curled up around the edge of the recliner as though he were protecting Griffin from anything that might disturb his rest.

Pushing away from the doorframe, Isabelle grabbed the brown afghan off the back of the sofa, letting it fall open as she shuffled over to the sleeping youkai. She tucked the blanket around him, noting with a bemused grin that he looked so much younger when he relaxed. She wasn’t sure how old he was, but she knew that he’d lived for awhile. He had his face turned, his scars hidden from view, and her breath caught in her throat as she stared at him. He really was a devastating man, and the scars didn’t detract from that, at all. No, they lent him a rather dangerous air, and while she knew damn well that youkai in general could be a violent lot, the Griffin she knew was the furthest from violent as they came.

‘ _Careful, Isabelle. Don’t discount what could very well be just because you think that he’s nothing but a pushover_ ,’ her youkai warned.

‘ _I don’t think he’s a pushover_ ,’ she argued, reaching out to ruffle his bangs but stopping short with a soft sigh. She’d been drawn to him from the start, hadn’t she? There was just something about him that seemed to whisper to her, regardless of whether he admitted as much or not. She wished that she felt confident enough to touch him; wished for that more than anything. Trouble was, she wasn’t sure she dared do that; not really. As much as she liked to think that the two of them were inevitable, even she had to admit that Griffin had never allowed as much as a slight ray of hope that he thought she was anything other than a trial to him . . .

‘ _What’s this? You mean your legendary confidence is faltering?_ ’

Biting her lip, she rubbed her forehead and padded off to take a shower. ‘ _No_ ,’ she argued as she strode into her bedroom to grab a change of clothes. ‘ _I’ll just have to try that much harder, right?_ ’

Her youkai snorted. ‘ _Hard to do that when you promised that you wouldn’t come on to him while he’s translating the research notes_.’

Isabelle made a face as she stomped into the bathroom and quietly closed the door, wondering absently just how it could be that something as innocent as conversing with her youkai voice never failed to ruin the best of her moods. ‘ _That was the barter made in hell, wasn’t it?_ ’

‘ _Hmm, quite possibly . . . can you blame the poor man, though? Let’s face it, Isabelle. Your ‘in-your-face’ style of doing things just isn’t going to work on him. Best you learn some subtlety, and do it fast before you scare the man off forever_.’

She grimaced. She’d never seen the need to play the games that some women insisted on playing. They didn’t make sense. In her mind, it was better to lay it all on the table and see what happened. After all, what was the point of pretending to be looking for something that she knew wasn’t meant to be? With Griffin, she’d known intuitively that he was the one. It was a feeling more than anything else, but it was one that she’d never felt before . . .

She sighed as she stripped off her hospital scrubs. She’d had to change into them at work when a three year-old girl puked all over her. Poor thing had been running a temperature of one-hundred-and-three degrees. She’d contracted a new strand of influenza that was particularly nasty and difficult to deal with. They’d been able to lower her temperature, but only by dosing her with ibuprofen and acetaminophen. Hopefully that’d work to keep her fever down until the antibiotics had enough time to work through her system . . .

It was dragging her down, wasn’t it? The long hours; the incongruity of working in a public hospital emergency room . . . In the beginning, she’d kept the position at the hospital where she’d done her rotations because she’d come to care about the people she worked with, but she was starting to wonder if she was crazy for choosing to stay in a place where the patients were transient and where she only saw the worst of things.

Even then, there was the question of the research, too. She’d never be able to devote as much time and energy into completing it if she stayed on at the hospital. She’d be crazy to try. Working twelve hour shifts was trying enough. Dealing with new interns just starting their rotations was always difficult. Most of them had preconceived notions about what being a doctor really meant, and it wasn’t really an odd thing for Isabelle to spend hours at a time correcting blunders or having to explain to a wayward student that they had to do things in a certain way . . .

She had a friend who ran a clinic downtown. Catering to the wealthier residents of Bangor, the clinic also had a spa and a center for mental well-being. ‘ _That was what they’re calling psychiatrists these days_ ,’ Isabelle thought with a snort as she turned on the shower and waited for a minute for the water to warm. ‘ _Mental well-being . . . people don’t want to admit that they’re seeing a psychiatrist, so they cover it up by saying that they’re going to see a well-being specialist . . . it’s a load of crap, but whatever floats their boats_ . . .’

‘ _Maybe Griffin should see one of those well-being specialists_ ,’ her youkai piped up as Isabelle stepped into the shower and squeezed her eyes closed against the flow of water.

‘ _There’s nothing wrong with his well-being_ ,’ Isabelle thought with a derisive snort. ‘ _He’s fine . . . just fine_ . . .’

‘ _Do you really think so? I mean, think about it. He’s keeping something secret, don’t you think? People who are saddled with excess baggage tend to act a lot like him_ . . .’

‘ _We all have baggage, don’t we? We wouldn’t be normal if we didn’t_.’

‘ _And I’m telling you, that man has more baggage than most. Mark my words: there are some things that even you can’t do_.’

‘ _I can_ ,’ she insisted, lathering her hair in the thorough manner borne from watching her father scrub his hands every day. It was the surgeon in him, she supposed. Kichiro Izayoi’s hands were always meticulously clean . . . ‘ _I can help him. I_ know _I can_.’

‘ _Only if he wants your help, and at this point, I’d say he doesn’t_ ,’ her youkai pointed out with a tired sigh. ‘ _Face it, Isabelle: you might be biting off more than you can chew_.’

‘ _I still have to try_ ,’ she stated, determination setting in. She grimaced when her claws scraped against her skull a little harder than she’d intended. Sometimes she forgot about those . . .

‘ _In any case, Bitty, best you keep your expectations in check. If you’re actually going to get to that particular man, you need to do it by degrees_.’

‘ _By degrees, huh . . .?_ ” she repeated, rinsing her hair under the warmth of the flowing tap. ‘ _I can do that_ . . .’

Her youkai snorted skeptically. ‘ _Can you?_ ’

‘ _Yes. Yes, I can_ . . .’

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Griffin groaned softly as he sat up in the recliner and shook his head in utter dismay, pushing the afghan onto the floor in a careless heap as every bone in him protested movement of any kind. The entire left side of his body was numb; the residual effect of having fallen asleep. He normally didn’t sleep that long at a stretch. It was surprising that he had this time. Usually the aches and pains in his body roused him well before he’d managed more than a couple hours at a stretch. As unusual as it was, he knew that he’d be feeling the screaming aftereffects of this indulgence for a few days to come . . .

Charlie sat up, too, his thick tail thumping heavily against the floor, a rather daft look gracing his morbidly ugly features. “Glad one of us is in a good mood,” Griffin grumbled as he reluctantly pushed himself to his feet but stumbled when his left leg buckled beneath his weight. Catching himself on the arm of the chair before he ended up flat on his face, Griffin blinked in surprise when Charlie pushed against him, using his body to steady Griffin and uttering a soft whine when Griffin’s hand came down rather hard on his head. “Sorry,” Griffin mumbled, righting his stance and sparing a moment to scratch the animal behind his ears.

Charlie wuffed low in his throat and followed Griffin’s limping gait into the kitchen.

“I suppose you want something for helping me,” he mused, watching as the dog lumbered over to sit beside his empty food and water bowls. Shaking his head, Griffin bent down, grimacing as his knees cracked and popped as he opened the cupboard where he’d stashed the huge plastic tub that contained the beast’s fodder. Isabelle had said that she simply filled the bowl and let him eat as much as he wanted throughout the day, but after having read the instructions on the bag and looking the dog over, Griffin had decided that Charlie was sorely overweight and needed to be fed accordingly.

“ _But he gets hungry,” Isabelle protested, her golden eyes pleading despite the hint of a smile that lingered in the depths of her gaze_.

 _Griffin snorted as he closed the new plastic container and stowed it in the cupboard under the sink. “Too bad. You might be a fat ass, but your dog doesn’t need to be, too_.”

 _She rolled her eyes at that and shook her head, obviously deciding that she needed to try another tactic since the current one wasn’t working for her. “You know, he’s my dog, and he whines to tell me he’s hungry if I don’t fill his bowl for him,” she pointed out_.

“ _Dogs don’t have big enough brains to know when they’re hungry and when they’re not. He eats out of habit . . . kind of like you,” Griffin retorted_.

 _She snapped her mouth closed, the corners of her lips twitching with barely contained amusement. He shot her a warning glance meant to quell her humor. It apparently had the opposite effect as she burst into gales of laughter_ . . .

With a sigh, he carefully measured a cup of food out of the container and stowed it back under the sink after snapping the lid in place.

It didn’t take the dog long to devour the food. Griffin shook his head, still kneeling on the floor but leaning against the cupboard for support since he wasn’t entirely certain that he’d be able to stand up just yet. Still licking his chops, Charlie sat down beside the drawer and half-whined, half-growled in an effort to get Griffin to give him more.

“Forget it. You’re a fat ass, too,” he said, grimacing as he braced his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet.

Charlie scratched the floor as Griffin filled the tea kettle and put it on the burner, ignoring the animal’s antics.

He almost tripped over Charlie as he headed out of the kitchen. Uttering a terse growl, he shot the dog a menacing glare but stepped around him with a long-suffering sigh. “Between you and _her_ , I’m going to end up dead,” he mumbled under his breath as he headed for the bathroom.

Charlie crouched on the floor and pulled himself along in Griffin’s wake, much to Griffin’s reluctant amusement.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the living room when Charlie tried to scoot into the bathroom. “I’ll let you get away with a lot of things, but there’s no way in hell you’re coming in here.”

Charlie growled again but stretched out across the threshold. Griffin made a face and closed the door, reaching for the light switch as he wondered just how he’d been reduced to this. ‘ _I knew there was a reason I’ve always said I don’t like dogs._ ’

‘ _It’s not that bad, you know. In fact, it’s not bad, at all. Charlie might be ugly, but he’s not a mean animal, and Isabelle? It’s not so bad, having her living here . . . Besides, she can be pretty thoughtful sometimes, or didn’t you notice?_ ’

Griffin opened the medicine cabinet, retrieving his shaving gear. ‘ _Can’t say I did_ ,’ he lied, flexing his fingers before splashing hot water on his face and squeezing a fair amount of shaving cream into the palm of his hand.

‘ _Oh, so you didn’t notice that she covered you up with that afghan?_ ’

‘ _You’re saying she’s nice just because she spared a minute to drop a blanket over me?_ ’ he demanded as he carefully spread the shaving cream on his face.

‘ _Sure . . . when’s the last time that anyone’s tried to take care of you?_ ’

He snorted but didn’t answer as he checked the straight razor for any sign of wear. It was the old fashioned type that most people didn’t know how to use anymore. He’d never been able to reconcile himself to the t-razors, and he really couldn’t tolerate the electric ones, either.

‘ _I don’t need anyone to take care of me_ ,’ he thought at length, scraping the blade over his cheek, careful to avoid the puckered scar tissue.

‘ _Maybe you don’t need it, no_ ,’ his youkai agreed. ‘ _Doesn’t mean that you can’t enjoy it_.’

Grimacing when the blade slipped out of his clumsy fingers, Griffin picked it up again and rinsed off the residual shaving cream before turning his face to tackle the other side. ‘ _I think you’ve lost your mind. I wasn’t sure before, but I am now_ . . .’

‘ _Hmm, that’s right; I forgot_ . . .’

‘. . . _Forgot, what?_ ’

‘ _You_ like _torturing yourself. You think it makes you a martyr or something_.’

The razor froze in mid-stroke, and Griffin stiffened against the truth behind that statement. ‘ _That’s not right_ . . .’

‘ _Yeah, I don’t think so, either_ _. . . Seems a little twisted if you ask me_.’

He snorted and resumed shaving. ‘ _Maybe it’d be different if she weren’t who she is_ ,’ he admitted as the fleeting image of her smiling expression lingered in his mind. ‘ _It’s no good_.’

The only reply he got for that assessment was a resigned sort of sigh.

‘ _Even then_ . . .’

‘ _Yeah, I know . . . even if she is fixated on you now, once she finds out about your past, right?_ ’

Grunting tersely, Griffin washed the residual shaving cream off his face and rinsed off the razor blade, carefully dried it off before stowing it back in the medicine cabinet once more.

It was the truth of it, wasn’t it? Those smiles that she offered so freely, regardless of her teasing nature that unnerved him . . . He could grow dependent upon them, couldn’t he? And that . . .

That was something that he simply could not let happen . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

‘ _How long . . . have I been kept here . . .?_ ’

The sound of heavy breathing echoed in his ears as he jerked his head from side to side in a vain effort to dislodge the blindfold that impeded his vision. The underlying hum emanating from the shackles locked around his wrists and ankles was monotonous: a sound guaranteed to drive him mad . . .

The air felt damp, smelled musty. The reek of dustiness that could only be created in the darkness of a cave or underground far enough that the noises of humanity were forever quelled.

He’d known that it was only a matter of time. Back then, he’d thought that the only real chance for redemption would be if he kept his mouth closed. He should have known better. How many times had _he_ said it before? “ _No mercy . . . no mercy_ . . .”

No mercy.

The scrape of a door against a swollen wood floor resounded in his ears like the tolling of a death knell. Restraining the reflex to grimace, he jerked his head to the side, following the direction of the noise as he struggled to maintain a calm that he was far from feeling. The slight motion of his body set off the electro-locks that bound him, and he sucked in a sharp breath as four jagged zaps of electricity shot through his limbs.

“My patience is wearing a little thin with you, Avis.”

Gritting his teeth as he willed his muscles not to jerk involuntarily, he paused before responding. “I told you: they don’t know anything.”

The dull thump of shoes against the floor drawing nearer . . . “Are you sure you didn’t find out where the research is now?”

The question was asked in a mild enough tone. He didn’t try to delude himself into thinking that he was off the hook. “I never asked,” he admitted. “Even if I had, do you really think they’d tell me anything considering I had her kidnapped?”

The blinding pain exploded in his cheek as his head snapped to the side, setting off the electrodes in the shackles once more, and he couldn’t help the low moan that slipped from him. _He_ leaned over him, grasping the arms of the wooden chair so tightly that it groaned under the stress. “Are you really so useless or did you honestly think you’d escape me?”

Avis bit back the desire to shrink away. “I did what you wanted. I told Zelig that I was working on my own volition. He doesn’t suspect that there was someone else. You’re in the clear.”

A frustrated growl erupted, and Avis gulped hard. “Incidentals, damn it! You’re no use to me now. Zelig doesn’t have a clue as to what, exactly, he has possession of, and before he figures it out, _I—want—that—research_.”

A thin, cold hand closed around his jugular, the prick of razor-sharp claws digging into the tender flesh calculated, contrived to exact pain: intense pain. Avis’ gasp was audible in the quiet, and he squeezed his eyes closed, his mind oddly blanking as one thought replayed itself over and over again: ‘ _I’m going to die . . . He’s going to kill me_ . . .’

“I have no further use for the likes of you, Dr. Avis,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Wait! You know, maybe . . . maybe you should . . . hold off on doing anything,” Avis blurted—anything to pacify the enraged youkai . . . anything to stall for precious time . . . “Carl . . . He didn’t trust anyone else in the lab other than Kennedy.”

“Of course he didn’t!” _he_ thundered, rapidly losing control over his escalating temper as his claws dug in a little deeper. The scent of his own blood infiltrated Avis’ senses as a vague sort of haziness enveloped the edges of coherent thought. “He wasn’t a fool, even if he didn’t prove difficult to take care of in the end.”

Avis grimaced, choking and wheezing as he struggled to draw breath enough to speak. He’d known, certainly, that _he_ had been responsible for Kennedy and ultimately, for Carl’s deaths, but it was something else entirely to have that information verified. “So if he didn’t trust anyone . . . then it stands to reason . . . that he probably encoded the research . . . don’t you think? I mean, why else would Zelig and the rest of them not know . . . what they’re dealing with?”

The hand released him abruptly, and Avis swallowed hard, shaking his head to dispel the fuzziness in his head. Ribbons of blood trickled down his throat, sending an unpleasant shiver down his spine as the blood-dampened fabric of his collar rubbed against his skin. He was still struggling to regain his composure when the scrape of shoes on the floor echoed through the cavernous room. “Hmm . . . perhaps you’re not as useless as I thought you were . . .”

Avis almost sighed in abject relief, satisfied that he’d managed to save his own hide, at least for the moment. “Carl was a . . . language buff,” he rasped out, his throat raw, aching. “Wouldn’t . . . surprise me . . . if he . . . wrote everything . . . in some sort of . . . code . . .”

“That’s not a problem. I’ll find someone to translate it for me.”

Avis wheezed out a terse laugh. “You think it’d be that simple? If he went to the trouble . . . of writing everything in code . . . then it’s a safe bet . . . that the code isn’t as simple as literal translation. You said you don’t believe that Zelig knows the sort of information he’s got? Then it’s likely that he is having trouble finding someone who can translate it.”

He considered that for several long seconds. “So what you’re saying is that I’d do well to let Zelig worry about getting the information translated . . .”

Avis nodded, turning his face to the side to spit out a mouthful of blood.

“I see . . . very well, then. You’ve been quite useful today, Dr. Avis.”

Avis nodded, his body relaxing just a little at the pacified sound of _his_ voice.

“I think I have another job for you, but make no mistake: I’ll be watching. If you try to betray me, you’ll be dead.”

Avis winced inwardly. The very last thing he wanted was to be given another ‘job’ by the youkai, but . . . but if it kept him alive . . . “A . . . job . . .?”

He felt the jerk on the electro-locks and gritted his teeth as a stronger current shot through him seconds before the shackles fell away from his ankles then his hands. _He_ yanked him roughly to his feet. Avis nearly stumbled. It had been . . . days . . .? weeks . . .? since he’d last stood. Stifling the pained groan that surged through him as his muscles twitched and jerked, Avis gingerly rubbed his wrists before lifting a hand to his throat to assess the damage.

The voice—little more than a hateful hiss in his ear—sent a shiver down his spine and back up again. “Go home, Dr. Avis, and when that little bitch calls, get her to tell you what the status is on that research.”

Avis opened his mouth to say that he didn’t really think that Jillian would know, and even if she did, the chances of her telling him any such thing were slim and none, but he thought better of it. If he refused, then he really would die today . . . “All right,” he agreed, grasping the blindfold and tugging it off, his eyes unable to focus as the relatively dim light in the old chamber stabbed at his weakened senses.

The blur of a youkai before him wavered as a menacing chuckle filled his ears. “If you fail, Avis . . .”

Avis nodded, clearing his throat as the implied threat hung thick in the air. If he failed this time, there would be no way save himself; no eleventh-hour reprieve . . .

No, if Avis didn’t do exactly as he was told, Eaton Fellowes . . . He really _would_ kill him . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Dropping the ink pen on the notebook with a frustrated sigh, Griffin slumped in his chair, letting his head fall back as he closed his eyes and rubbed his face with his slightly shaking hands. It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered whether Dr. Carl Carradine was an idiot savant or just an idiot. After having spent the last two hours trying to decipher one measly paragraph, he was leaning toward the ‘just an idiot’ theory . . .

The trouble was that there were a few phrases that could be interpreted a few ways, and not one of them really made more sense than another. The best he’d been able to do was to write down every literal translation and hope that Isabelle could figure out which was the right one. Of course, that would mean that Griffin would also have to concede that Isabelle wasn’t as useless as he liked to think she was. All in all, it was enough to set him on edge as he wondered absently just where she’d run off to—easily the hundredth time he’d wondered that since she’d wiggled her fingers in jaunty farewell and told him that she had ‘errands’ to do hours ago . . .

‘ _Errands, maybe . . . so why did she look like the proverbial cat that ate the canary when she’d said that?_ ’

Wrinkling his nose, he let his hands drop to his sides as he shook his head in self-disgust. He didn’t _care_ , damn it . . . He _didn’t_ . . .

Grabbing the notebook, journal, and pen off the desk, Griffin stood up and glanced at the sliding back door. It was sunny outside: probably one of the last really nice days of the year. There was a crispness in the air like the barest hint of the changing season, and ordinarily, he’d have taken advantage of the weather to go on a nice, long walk, but since his left leg was still dealing him a ration of grief, he didn’t figure that indulging himself would be quite as enjoyable as it normally would be.

Charlie paced back and forth in front of the glass doors, which just figured. Ever since he’d seen the squirrels that Griffin fed every morning, he was convinced that they were Charlie-snacks and was literally dying to get out there and see if he could catch one. Of course, with his amended diet, the stupid creature was like to eat anything he could get his gaping maw on. Yet something else Griffin could blame on that maddening woman, he supposed . . . “Forget it, dog,” he grumbled, dropping the work on the coffee table in lieu of chastising the animal. “I’ll chop you up and use you for fertilizer,” he warned.

Charlie just wagged his tail.

Griffin sensed Isabelle seconds before she breezed into the house, her arms weighed down by brown paper grocery bags. He made a face, seeing them and calculating in his head how many trees she’d killed by being too lazy to take a basket with her to the market . . . “Tree murderer,” he mumbled under his breath as he stomped over to her and ungraciously swiped the bags away from her.

“What was that?” she said, that damned bright smile of hers lighting on her face as easily as the sunrise.

“Nothing,” Griffin grumbled, turning away to head toward the kitchen but not before Isabelle caught the telling hint of a blush that had crept into Griffin’s skin. Her laughter followed him, and he winced as his blush deepened.

“What’s the matter, Dr. G? Did you miss me?”

He snorted, setting the bags on the counter with a heavy thump and digging into one, only to make a face when he pulled out a flimsy plastic container of oversized chocolate chip deli-style cookies. “Great . . . yet something else to add more weight to your already overly-fat ass.”

She laughed even harder at that, bracing herself on his arm to lean around him and snag the container of cookies. The infuriating woman winked at him when she caught his scowl. “Want one?”

“No.”

“Mmm!” she exclaimed softly, letting her eyes roll back in her skull as she stuffed half of the huge cookie into her mouth. She collapsed back against the counter, clutching at her heart in a melodramatic way. “These are so-o-o good . . . You sure you don’t want one?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

She looked like she wanted to say something, but got sidetracked by the basement door. He’d inadvertently left it open earlier after he’d taken a break to work on one of his carvings. Charlie had followed him downstairs, and he’d left the door unlocked so that the idiot dog could get out when he was ready. He’d forgotten to push it closed and lock it, and since he’d given Isabelle explicit instructions that she was under no circumstances allowed to as much as look through the doorway, it wasn’t entirely surprising that she was intrigued. “You do remember that you’re not allowed anywhere near the basement,” he reminded her gruffly.

She heaved a sigh and reluctantly turned away from the cracked open doorway. “That rule shouldn’t apply when you leave the door hanging wide open,” she complained.

“It’s not hanging wide open,” he grumbled. “It’s just slightly ajar. If you wanted to look down there, you’d have to pull the door further open; ergo it is not a breach of the rules.”

“You have a lot of rules, big guy,” she remarked ruefully. “Is there a dead body down there?”

Griffin froze for a moment before peering over his shoulder at her. She was smiling, of course, and when she caught his eye, she winked. He snorted. “. . . Yes.”

“I knew it!” she exclaimed with a soft giggle. “Just one or could you raise your own zombie army?”

“Just nosy females who don’t know when to leave well enough alone,” he said mildly.

“Oh? So you’re planning on adding me to the body count, too.”

“Yes, as soon as I figure out how to get rid of your annoying dog.”

She laughed outright at that, obviously discounting Griffin’s claims. “So you say; so you say. I think I’m growing on you.”

“You can think that.”

“Admit it: I’m getting under that thick skin of yours.”

Griffin waved her off and pulled a loaf of white bread out of the bag—marginally healthier than the cookies, sure, but still not what he’d consider ‘good for her’ . . . “Your eating habits are deplorable,” he commented as he frowned at a vacuum-sealed package of olive loaf. He could feel his sodium levels rise just looking at the stuff and sighed. “Did you buy anything that hasn’t been processed a thousand times and therefore leached of what little nutritional value it had, to start with?” he complained.

“Don’t diss the olive loaf,” she reprimanded though her eyes retained the amused sparkle that he was really starting to dread.

“Do me a favor and don’t let your unhealthy crap touch my food. It’ll lose vitamins just by being in the vicinity of yours.”

She grinned and dug another cookie out of the box. “Well, we could always get a second refrigerator,” she mused.

“Thinking about it,” he mumbled. “At least drink a glass of milk with those.”

“Oh, milk!” she exclaimed, pushing herself away from the counter and reaching around him to grab a half-gallon of skim milk from the other bag.

Griffin snorted. “I meant real milk, not watered down milk _byproduct_ ,” he pointed out.

“But skim milk has less fat! And anyway, the only time I can stand to drink it is when I’m having cookies.”

He spared a moment to pin her with a serious glance. “Skim milk and cookies . . . if you’re going to eat something fattening, drinking that isn’t going to do much to counter it, you know.”

She just laughed at him. It figured.

It shouldn’t have surprised him, really. Watching with a raised eyebrow when she pulled five huge, thick slabs of steak out of the bag, Griffin couldn’t help the look of disdain that marred his features as she pushed his salad greens aside to make room for the artery-clogging meat. Even the potatoes she’d purchased bore the ink-stamp of the brand on their clean skins, and Griffin shook his head. “You mean you do eat something that is somewhat healthy?” he questioned, nodding at the potatoes in her hands. “I thought you hated vegetables.”

Isabelle giggled, a strand of her bronze hair falling over her cheek. She shifted her mouth to the side and blew a short gust of breath out to get it out of her face. “Potatoes aren’t the same. They’re a starch—not nearly as vegetable-y as your green stuff . . . You know, historically speaking, finding green stuff in one’s refrigerator isn’t necessary considered a good thing.”

He rolled his eyes. “They’re vegetables. They’re supposed to be green, and for the record? ‘Vegetable-y’ isn’t a real word.”

“You should be happy,” she informed him as she headed out of the kitchen once more.

Griffin narrowed his eyes but followed her, pausing long enough to push the basement door closed and securing the lock to keep nosy women from succumbing to temptation. “Why?”

“Because I bought the stuff to make a really great dinner for you.”

“Oh, God . . .”

She laughed harder, pausing at the threshold of the living room long enough to wink at him before sauntering away.

Griffin snorted loudly, wondering just how hard it would be to get out of eating anything that Isabelle tried to feed him. True enough, he had nothing against meat, and from time to time, he had to admit that he actively sought it out. That didn’t mean that he wanted to eat it all the time, and certainly not in the amounts that Isabelle seemed to prefer. In any case, the idea of her making dinner for him was a little intimidating. She’d probably end up cooking those huge steaks with overcooked potatoes served with a layer of gravy so thick that he wouldn’t be able to find the food underneath it all . . .

Deciding that he’d had enough of a break, Griffin retrieved the research materials and dropped into the chair at his desk. Most evenings when Isabelle was there, he could effectively ignore her if he concentrated on the journal. She didn’t seem to mind it, either, settling down on the sofa with the translated notes or a book or magazine if he hadn’t gotten much done for her. As chatty as she tended to be, she didn’t seem to mind the prolonged periods of silence, and as much as he was loath to admit it, he . . . he didn’t really mind it, either.

Isabelle kicked the front door closed behind her and hurried through toward the kitchen once more.

‘ _Good lord, can’t she do_ anything _without making a screaming ruckus?_ ’ he wondered as the distinct sound of crashing pan lids echoed through the otherwise quiet house.

His answer was another resounding clatter as his cast iron skillet hit the floor followed directly by a very unladylike curse that had Griffin shaking his head in dismay. Charlie bounded off the floor and broke for the kitchen, and Griffin heaved a sigh. She’d apparently dropped more than just the skillet, and the dog thought it was his job to suck up the mess . . . ‘ _She’s hopeless; just hopeless, and that dog_ . . .’ He scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully and decided that he was better off not stepping foot in the kitchen at the moment. ‘ _Social pariahs; the both of them_ . . .’

“He already ate,” Griffin called out anyway though he seriously doubted Isabelle would care.

He figured he was right, too, when Charlie re-emerged a minute later, licking his chops and looking entirely too pleased about something.

Isabelle stepped out of the kitchen, smiling brightly when she noticed that he was looking. The smile was enough to give him pause, but coupled with the conspicuous way she held her hands behind her back, he had to wonder just what she was up to . . .

“So I saw something when I was at the store, and it reminded me of you,” she said as she made a show of sauntering over to him.

“Perish the thought,” he murmured, turning his back on her rather abruptly and burying his nose in the journal once more.

She laughed. “Do you want it?”

“. . . No.”

She came closer, leaning over his shoulder, her hair falling to brush against his cheek. “Are you sure?”

Swatting her hair away from his face, he snorted. “Yes.”

“Aren’t you even a little curious?”

He snorted. “Can’t say I am.”

“Humor me?”

Heaving a sigh, he turned to face her, opening his mouth to tell her in no uncertain terms that he really didn’t want a thing from her, least of all this ‘thing’ that she’d found that reminded her of him. She stared at him in that direct way of hers, and he blinked, forgetting for the moment that he was better off to keep her at bay. She really didn’t have any visible pores in her skin, and that skin looked incredibly soft. She didn’t look away, and she didn’t say anything outrageous. No, instead she just stared back at him, looking entirely too hopeful—too pleased. “What is it?” he growled, his gaze narrowing just slightly—enough to offer her a silent warning that she’d better not be trying to pull a fast one on him.

With a triumphant little smile, she stood up straight, and with a dramatic flourish, she pulled . . . it . . . out from behind her back. “See? Doesn’t he look like you?” she asked, proudly offering him the stuffed animal—Winnie the Pooh.

Griffin’s mouth fell open in abject horror as he stared at the ridiculous bear. Violent color exploded on his features as he knocked her hand away and shot to his feet. “That’s not—I don’t—You aren’t—” he cut himself off abruptly and drew a deep breath before leveling a fulminating glower at the maddening hanyou and stomping past her. “I do _not_ look like that!” he rumbled.

She threw her head back and laughed as she set the bear on the desk and tugged the little red shirt into place. “Sure, you do,” she argued between giggles. “You’re cute and cuddly, and you like honey, just like he does.”

Snapping his mouth closed on his retort, he scowled murderously at the floor before stomping off toward the basement door that he’d just locked.

“Wait, wait!” she called after him, running over to catch him before he could disappear into ‘No-Isabelle-Land’.

He shook her off but stopped, planting his hands on his hips as he shot her a warning glance. “What now?”

She waved her hand dismissively as he realized something he hadn’t before: she still had one hand behind her back, and the thought of just what she was still hiding wrenched a long-suffering groan from him. “Do you want your other present?”

Griffin snorted. “I’d hardly call that stuffed animal a present,” he said.

“But I bought these just for you . . .” she tried to coax him.

Griffin wasn’t about to fall for it a second time. “Don’t want it,” he informed her, digging into his pocket for the key to the basement door.

“Okay,” Isabelle said, spinning around on her heel and striding away as she whipped whatever it was she’d been hiding out from behind her back and shielded it from his view.

Telling himself that he didn’t care what else she’d purchased to torment him with, Griffin reached for the door knob but stopped. The crinkle of a plastic bag being pulled open drew his attention, and moments later, the unmistakable smell of honey roasted pecans filled his nostrils.

Isabelle dug a few out of the bag and tilted her head back to drop the nuts into her mouth, happily munching on them as she wandered back over to the desk to look over Griffin’s translations.

Before he could stop to think about it, Griffin stomped over, plucking the bag out of her hand and nudging her away from the desk with a bump of his hip before sitting back down at the desk and twisting away when Isabelle tried to reach over his shoulder and into the bag of pecans.

“Hey! Haven’t you ever heard of sharing?” she asked.

Griffin snorted. “You said you bought them for me,” he pointed out, stuffing a handful of nuts into his mouth while protecting the bag from her overzealous fingers.

“You said you didn’t want them.”

“Changed my mind.”

“Ha! Let me have some!”

“You didn’t say you bought something for me to share with you,” he argued, slapping her hand away and eliciting a giggle from her. “They’re mine. Get your own.”

“But I _bought_ those.”

“Yes, and I will eat them without any help from you.”

“You could at least say ‘thank you’.”

“After you gave me that?” he countered, nodding at the stuffed animal on the desk.

“Especially after that.”

He snorted. “No way. You owed me. Now we’re even.”

She heaved a sigh and stepped back, but he didn’t miss the smile gracing her lips. “All right; you win,” she said with a shake of her head. “I’m going to go check on dinner, anyway.”

He waited until she was halfway to the kitchen before dumping the rest of the bag into the half-empty bowl on his desk. They weren’t quite as good as the ones he roasted, himself, but they weren’t bad, either. Grabbing another handful, he pushed the stuffed bear aside and frowned.

‘ _I don’t look like that_ ,’ he fumed, scowling at the sewed-on smile. ‘ _That bear looks absolutely daft . . . not at all like me_ . . .’

‘ _Oh, I don’t know . . . I can see the resemblance_ . . .’

Griffin snorted and slowly shook his head. ‘ _I realize it’s been awhile since I’ve really looked in the mirror, but I know damn well I do not look even_ remotely _like . . . like_ . . .’

‘ _Winnie the Pooh?_ ’

He could feel the heat gathering just below the surface of his skin yet again and grimaced as his youkai voice laughed at him.

He ought to throw the damn thing away. Regardless of why Isabelle had bought such a ridiculous gift, she should have known that he wouldn’t find it flattering, at all.

With a sigh, he reached for the bear, glaring at it for several long moments as he considered tossing it into the trash can beside his desk.

Thing was, he could count on one hand, the number of times anyone had ever thought to buy anything for him, ridiculous or not. Maybe that was the real reason he set the stuffed animal on the desk shelf. It certainly didn’t have anything to do with the person who had bought the gift. That’d be even more asinine than the gift, itself . . .

He stared at the glassy black eyes of the cartoon character and took up his pen once more as he groped around for the bowl of honey roasted pecans.

He didn’t see the gentle smile on Isabelle’s face as she leaned in the kitchen doorway and watched him.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _My Pooh Bear **!**_


	11. Unnerving

“I made some tea for you.”

Griffin blinked and looked up at Isabelle, his dark eyes reflecting the fluorescent light from the desk lamp. “Thank you,” he said, his tone gruff yet gentle enough to draw a smile from her as she set his mug beside him.

“And note: I’m not even going to crack a honey joke, either.”

That earned her a slight narrowing of his eyes, and she laughed, leaning over his shoulder as she balanced her coffee mug, careful not to spill it on him as she scanned through the translation he was working on.

“Here,” he grumbled, snatching the notebook off the desk and thrusting it into her face. “If you want to look at it, fine, just don’t squash me, all right?”

Sparing a moment to cast him a bright smile, Isabelle took the notebook and shuffled over to the sofa, her slipper-covered feet whispering against the hardwood floor. Her smile faded as she read through the notes. According to the translation, Carl Carradine believed that someone was after him; trying to kill him—the same one that he claimed had been responsible for Kennedy Carradine’s death. Sinking down on the sofa, she tapped a delicate claw against her lips.

‘ _I’ve decided to hide the research in a place that it will be safe, and the key to it is, of course, the only hope that we possess. Even though we will not be able to complete the project, it is my only hope that this is able to help someone, even if it is just one person. In the end, isn’t that why we’re doing this? Or is this, as I fear, my own selfish wish that Kenney, Liza, and my lives were not lived in vain? That we will leave our marks upon history in this . . . After all, isn’t it said to be the true nature of all living things? This inane desire to have someone recognize their existence_ . . .’

She sighed and rubbed her forehead as she pondered Carl Carradine’s words. There was a certain level of truth in his claims; a certain sadly poetic sort of revelation. She could feel Griffin’s gaze on her, as though he were trying to read her mind. Did he hate that she was reading something so foreboding? Did it bother him at all . . .?

“There’s a noticeable difference in the way he writes at the beginning of the journal as opposed to the later entries,” Griffin commented.

She shot him a quick glance only to find him frowning thoughtfully into his tea. “What do you make of it?”

Griffin grunted, taking a long drink before answering. Clasping the cup between his hands, he shrugged in what seemed to Isabelle to be a calculated effort to appear nonchalant. “He was scared,” he said simply. He wouldn’t meet her gaze . . . or maybe he _couldn’t_ . . .

A distinct shiver raced down her spine, and Isabelle bit her lip. For the first time since she’d gotten the research, she understood Griffin’s fear—the reason he’d insisted that she move in for the duration. As much as she didn’t like to admit it, she had to wonder if his worries might well have some gravity to them . . .

“Maybe he was overreacting,” she said though her tone sounded anything but convinced.

Griffin pinned her with a menacing glower. She could feel his gaze boring into her head, and she had the distinct feeling that he was contemplating whether or not she could really be as dense as she let on. “If you think so,” he finally mumbled.

She smiled wanly and slowly shook her head. “I . . . I don’t know,” she allowed, more to herself than to him. “Even if what you think is true, then why didn’t he look for the research sooner?”

“Didn’t you say it was hidden?” Griffin asked, frowning down into the mug of tea clasped in his hands.

“Sure, but you know what they say: where there’s a will, there’s a way . . .” Her features clouded as she recalled the hint of a conversation that she’d overheard between Gunnar and Bastian.

“ _It still doesn’t make sense,” Gunnar remarked, scowling out the window behind Bastian’s desk as Bastian carefully used the handheld scanner to digitize the images on the research pages_.

“ _Avis claimed that he didn’t realize Jillian had lived, after all,” Bastian stated with a shrug and a quick glance at his cousin. “Makes sense to me. If he didn’t know she’d survived, then how could he have known about the bio-chip?_ ”

“ _True enough, but didn’t he think that maybe—just maybe—the research would be found again one day?” Gunnar contended, cocking an eyebrow as he picked up one of the notebooks and leafed through it_.

“ _Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? Jilli’s safe, and the research . . .” Trailing off as his gaze lifted to lock on Isabelle as the latter glanced over the first page of the journal, he scowled thoughtfully. “You can handle this, right?” he asked at length_.

 _Isabelle blinked and looked up. “Who? Me? Of course I can!” she assured him_.

 _Bastian nodded slowly, falling silent as he continued to scan the pages_ . . .

“Sounds like wishful thinking to me,” Griffin grumbled, drawing Isabelle out of her reverie.

She blinked and shook her head to clear her mind and shrugged offhandedly. “Avis didn’t realize that Jillian had survived. I guess he’d figured that she’d died with her mother.”

He digested that in silence then snorted. “Maybe,” he mumbled noncommittally. “All the same, you aren’t leaving this house without telling me where you’re going and when you’ll be back.”

She couldn’t help the amusement in her gaze as she lifted an eyebrow and met Griffin’s more belligerent expression. He looked like he expected her to argue with him, and while she might have done exactly that under normal circumstances, that Griffin was concerned enough to say anything that sounded even remotely possessive . . . Well, she couldn’t quite mask the smile that turned up the corners of her lips as she watched him drain the tea from the rough earthenware mug. “Careful, Dr. Griffin, or I might start to think that you actually like having me around,” she teased.

His cheeks warmed at the implication of her words, furthering Isabelle’s undisguised amusement. ‘ _No doubt about it_ ,’ she thought with an inward giggle. ‘ _I do love to make that man blush_ . . .’

“Don’t get carried away, little girl,” he grumbled, turning abruptly and presenting her with the wide expanse of his back, “and I could’ve sworn I told you that my name isn’t now nor has it ever been ‘Dr. Griffin’.”

“Little girl, am I?” she parried, pushing herself off the sofa as she wandered over to drop the notebook onto the desk beside him. “I’ll have you know that I’m hardly ‘little girl’ material.”

He snorted indelicately and didn’t bother to look up at her, shrugging his shoulder in a not-so-subtle reminder that she was invading his personal space. “Just because your ass is roughly the size of both of the polar ice caps put together doesn’t mean that you aren’t still just a cub.”

“A cub?” she echoed, a soft giggle slipping from her at his choice of words. “I wouldn’t be a cub, in any case, doctor, or did you forget that I’m a dog?”

“You sound just a little too proud of that,” he pointed out with a shake of his head. “Go away, will you? I’d like to get the rest of this page done without being subjected to your penchant for asking questions every five minutes.”

She wrinkled her nose and reached over his shoulder to nab a honey roasted pecan out of the bowl on his desk only to be rapped across the knuckles by the ink pen in Griffin’s hand. “Ow!” she exclaimed, jerking her hand back and cradling it against her chest.

“Hmf. There’s no way that hurt you,” he pointed out.

Caught between amusement that he would protect his pecans with such fervor and incredulity since she knew very well that she’d bought them for him, in the first place, Isabelle laughed and shrugged, letting her hand drop as she whirled around and leaned against the desk. “You’re right,” she agreed. “It didn’t . . . You could let me have one, you know.”

“No, I can’t,” he shot back, his tone dry as he flipped the page in the journal.

“Why not?”

He paused long enough to pin her with a look that stated very plainly that he thought she ought to know the answer to that question without having to ask. “Because they’re mine,” he remarked. “Go eat your unhealthy crap, and keep your paws off my nuts.”

Her lips twitched as she struggled to keep her expression as blank as possible. “But, Dr. Marin . . . your . . . _nuts_ . . . look so . . . delicious . . .”

His back stiffened as the pen thumped against the pages of the journal, his breath whizzing past his lips so hard that the sound was almost a whistle. Pinning her with a furious glare that was completely undermined by the infusion of color that bloomed in his cheeks, Griffin looked like he might be having trouble figuring out just what to say to her. “You’re violating the agreement,” he choked out with a furious shake of his head.

“You’re the one who mentioned your nuts,” she pointed out reasonably.

He narrowed his gaze at the feigned innocence in her tone. “You know damn well what I meant,” he mumbled, swatting her hip with his hand in an effort to remind her that he didn’t like her proximity.

“All right,” she relented before he really did lose his patience with her.   “Bad Isabelle.”

He snorted. “Is there a ‘good Isabelle’?”

“Sure there is. You just don’t want to meet her.”

That earned her another doleful glance, and he slowly shook his head as he set about ignoring her for the duration.

Isabelle laughed softly and straightened Winnie the Pooh on the shelf, refraining from making any comments that she knew wouldn’t really be welcome. It was enough that he’d kept the stuffed bear, she supposed. She hadn’t really thought that he would. Still she hadn’t been able to resist. When she’d seen him in the store, she couldn’t help but think of Griffin—even if he didn’t like the comparison.

Leaning over him, she nabbed the empty mug and headed for the kitchen to refill it.

It was odd, wasn’t it? She’d never really thought of herself as a homebody. She’d never actually considered that she’d enjoy quiet evenings at home with a man like Griffin Marin, but she did. Even doing something as mundane as fetching tea for the surly man was enjoyable, and being around him? She smiled as the warm feeling of absolute wellbeing surged through her. She felt like she belonged, didn’t she? She’d felt that before, when she had been a child. Sitting on her father’s knee as he went over research notes or read the newspaper and, if she were lucky, sometimes he’d hold her on his lap while he played the piano for hours on end . . . During those times, she’d felt a level of contentment that was so hard to find nowadays. What was it about Griffin that made her feel that way . . .?

It was the same thing that her mother felt, wasn’t it? That feeling was the reason why Bellaniece Zelig Izayoi had been so content as a housewife during the years when Isabelle and her younger sister, Alexandra had been growing up. The happiness that came with taking care of the man she loved—Isabelle’s father . . . it had been enough for her, hadn’t it?

In fact, it wasn’t until the girls were well into school that Bellaniece had decided to go college. By then, though, Kichiro had the funding and wherewithal that he was able to stay home and work on his research while taking care of Isabelle’s baby sister, Samantha. He’d said that he regretted missing out on things while Isabelle and Alexandra were babies. After all, he’d been in China performing a reconstructive surgery for charity on a young hanyou girl who had lost both of her parents in the same car accident that had nearly crippled the child when Isabelle had taken her first steps, and he’d been in Germany on a similar case when Alexandra was born a month earlier than she was scheduled to arrive . . .

No one blamed him for those things, though, with the exception of her grandfather, Cain, who had been livid when he’d found out that Kichiro was planning to go anywhere when Bellaniece was so far into her pregnancy. Having lost his first wife in childbirth, Cain knew all too well, just what sort of complications could arise, and even though Bellaniece had insisted that she wanted Kichiro to go, Cain, who had already brought the rest of his family to Japan for the duration of his oldest daughter’s pregnancy, had adamantly refused to let Kichiro in to see his newborn daughter until after he’d had a few choice words with the errant father. Still, even Cain had to admit that Kichiro certainly had felt horrible about missing his daughter’s birth, and there wasn’t a more loving father anywhere on earth, as far as Isabelle was concerned. Kichiro might have missed a few things here and there, but he’d more than made up for it over the years. He hadn’t freaked out when Isabelle brought her first boyfriend home, and he didn’t bat an eye when his daughters asked him questions about sex. No, Isabelle had to wonder if anything at all could shake Kichiro Izayoi. She seriously doubted it.

Yet as happy as her childhood had been, she supposed she never really understood why Bellaniece had chosen to stay home as a housewife for so long. She was one of the smartest people Isabelle knew; Bellaniece could have done anything she’d set her mind to. She’d asked her mother about it once. Bellaniece had just smiled and said that one day, Isabelle would understand. When she met the man who would be her mate, she’d realize that forever really is a long time, and that there are some things that could not ever be replaced. The memory of seeing her daughters grow and change was something that would have been dimmed had she been forced to split her time between a career and her family. Recalling the warmth of her mother’s laughter and the unselfish affection that she so freely had given over the years . . . Isabelle had to admit that maybe it was a good trade-off, after all . . .

She couldn’t help the soft giggle that escaped her as she poured steaming water into the mug where she’d carefully measured out the tea leaves from the crock on the counter—Griffin’s dandelion tea. She’d watched him closely enough to know that he always put two teaspoons of honey into the tea, stirring carefully, almost methodically, between scoops.

Satisfied with the results of her efforts, she took the mug and headed back into the living room. Froofie was curled up under the desk—no small feat for the massive dog—and Griffin seemed content enough with his task. Bent over the desktop, he was writing in the notebook. The pen slipped out of his grip, clattering on the wooden surface as he slowly opened and closed his hand, curling his fingers as though they hurt him. Isabelle stopped in her tracks, cocking her head to the side as a slight frown marred her brow while she took in the scene laid out before her.

He let out a long sigh and shook his hand, still flexing his fingers though he didn’t make a sound otherwise. She’d noticed the build-up of scar tissue, certainly. She’d come close to asking him more than once, just how he’d managed to come by such a thing when he was youkai. Once more, it struck her, how very little she really knew about him. While she liked to think that she knew him fairly well, staring at him as he suffered such obvious discomfort . . . She didn’t like it; not in the least . . .

“Are you all right?” she murmured, carefully keeping her voice low so that she didn’t surprise him too much.

Griffin started and glanced over his shoulder only to shrug as his cheeks pinked slightly before turning away and snatching up the pen once more. “Fine,” he bit out tersely.

She didn’t call him on his blatant lie as she slipped across the floor and set the mug of tea beside him. Though she couldn’t see all of his face from her vantage point, she could see the tell-tale bulging of his jaw as he tightened his grip on the ink pen once more. He really was in pain, wasn’t he, and more importantly, he was desperately trying to hide it from her . . .

“Let me see,” she said gently, laying one hand on his to still his movement as she pulled the pen from his grasp with the other one.

He scowled, tightening his grip though it did little to dissuade Isabelle’s attention. As though he were no more than a child, she took the pen with little real resistance on his part. Sparing a moment to cast him an apologetic glance, she lifted his hand and examined the scar tissue as he tried to pull away from her. “This is bad,” she commented, probing the flesh as tenderly as she could. “Let me guess: rescuing puppies from a burning building?”

He snorted at her obvious teasing and tugged on his arm. “Yes,” he answered dryly. “Leave me alone, will you?”

“No, I won’t,” she insisted, all pretenses of teasing falling by the wayside. All of his skin between his thumb and index finger was thick and unyielding; a testament of something that he seemed to want to forget. Angry, reddened, the scarring wasn’t fresh she could tell, yet it still carried the garish discoloring that normally faded, given time. She shifted her mouth to the side, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes as she continued to examine him. “Do you have some ointment or anything?” she questioned, wondering absently whether or not he’d dignify her with an answer.

“Don’t need it,” he mumbled, finally managing to pull away from her. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his face, telegraphing her a baleful glower for her concern and effectively hiding the appendage from her in the process.

“Of course you don’t,” she agreed lightly, figuring that all he’d be even more irritated if she made a big deal over the old injuries. “It could help, though . . . it bothers you to hold that pen, doesn’t it?”

He grunted and reached for the mug of tea with his other hand. Isabelle frowned at the crosshatching of scars on the back of that hand, too. “No.”

“Would you tell me if it did?” she asked carefully.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so,” she replied with a sigh, though she couldn’t help but smile at his brusque response. “Drink your tea before it gets cold,” she said instead, dusting off her palms as she turned away from the desk.

She could feel his gaze on her, and she almost smiled since she knew full well that the man was very likely trying to figure out why she’d let it go so easily. He sat still for a long moment before uttering a terse ‘hrumph’. The creak of the chair told her that he’d decided to let it go, too, and she stifled another sigh.

She wasn’t letting it go; not by a long shot. She might not know how Griffin had managed to get himself so badly injured, but digging her heels in and demanding answers just wasn’t going to work with the likes of the good doctor, and she knew it.

Grabbing her laptop computer off the coffee table, Isabelle sat down and stole a glance at the man in question. Hunched over his desk once more, he was hard at work again, and she bit her lip as she stared at him. There were ointments out there that could help to alleviate some of the swelling and blunt the pain associated with deep scars, she knew. Her father normally prescribed such things as a par for course for many of his reconstructive patients. The only trouble with them was that youkai on a whole tended to react differently to medication. In many cases, human medication worked well enough, but in some youkai, it didn’t work at all, and in a few, the symptoms could get worse from the treatment. No, the best thing to do would be to ask her grandmother to whip up some herbal salve. Gin Izayoi Zelig had learned a lot about such things from her mother, Kagome, and she had learned all she knew from the old village miko, Kaede in the days of her time spent in Sengoku Jidai.

That really would be the best thing, she supposed. She’d just have to make the drive up to Bevelle on her next day off . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Griffin sighed and let his head fall back as he slumped against the chair. The clock on the fireplace mantle read nearly midnight. He’d sat still much longer than he should have, he supposed . . .

The soft click of Isabelle’s typing was the only sound in the house aside from Charlie’s breathing and the occasional scratch of his claws on the floor as he chased rabbits in his dreams. Griffin paused long enough to gaze at the animal. Had he ever felt secure enough to sleep peacefully? To have a dream that made him smile when he remembered them come morning?

He pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the notebook. If he had, then it was in a time long past, in what seemed like a lifetime ago, or maybe it was just a lifetime away . . .?

“Here,” he said, dropping the notebook into Isabelle’s lap. She squeaked and jumped, nearly dropping her laptop on the floor as she scrambled to snatch the notebook before it fell. Griffin rolled his eyes but steadied the computer before snorting indelicately at Isabelle’s perceived lack of grace. “Klutz,” he mumbled, setting the laptop on the coffee table.

She giggled, and it struck him once more, just how free she was with her laughter. As much as it unsettled him, he had to admit, at least to himself, that he rather enjoyed the sound of it. Of course, he’d gut himself before he admitted any such thing to her. Knowing Isabelle, she’d take that as an invitation to find new and even more irritating ways to torture him . . .

“You startled me; that’s all,” she maintained, waving the notebook around as she smiled at him.

“Why? Emailing your boyfriend?”

She snorted—an entirely odd sound coming from the ever-ebullient woman. “Hardly . . . if you really must know, I was emailing my sister.”

“Oh, hell . . . You mean there’s more than one of you?”

The laughter came again as Griffin plopped down on the sofa. “Rest assured: Alexandra is nothing at all like me.”

“So there is balance in the world.”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Having two of you would be akin to witnessing the coming of the apocalypse.”

“Am I really that bad?” she asked with a grin.

“Yes,” he stated without hesitation. “Yes, you are.”

A wide yawn interrupted whatever comeback she’d been thinking of spouting. Griffin arched his right eyebrow and slowly shook his head. “You’re going to catch flies,” he warned.

She choked on a giggle as she dropped the notebook into her lap and wiped her eyes. “I’ve heard they’re good for you,” she countered.

“You eat the strangest things,” he said with a pronounced snort.

Isabelle just laughed.

“I made a few notes in there,” he said, poking at the notebook.

Isabelle blinked and rubbed her eye with the back of her hand. “Okay.”

“There were a few places where the translation could mean a couple different things. You can decide which one works better.”

She nodded, leafing through the notes with her index finger curled against her lips. It took her a moment to ponder the choices he’d offered before she circled the one she preferred with a red felt-tipped pen. Pushing her glasses up with a knuckle, she barely took note of anything else. When she started to chew on the end of the pen, it was all Griffin could do not to reach out and push her hand away.

‘ _You’re staring_.’

Griffin snorted and sat up straight, eyebrows drawing together in a marked scowl at the unwelcome intrusion of his youkai voice. ‘. . . _No, I’m not_.’

‘ _You are . . . not that it’s a bad thing, mind you. If you’re going to stare, why not stare at someone who looks like her?_ ’

‘ _I’m not staring_ ,’ he argued. Hefting himself off the sofa, he lumbered toward the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

‘ _She’s not that bad, Griffin, as much as you’d like to think otherwise. She’s rather nice to have around, wouldn’t you say?_ ’

That didn’t deserve a reply, as far as Griffin was concerned. She was one of the most irrational beings on earth, and she went out of her way to try his patience. Between her sexual innuendos and that damned laughter . . . Ignoring her was just not possible, no matter how hard he tried. Any way he looked at it, he was a condemned man, after all, because if he did manage to find a way to survive her overwhelming presence, there were just too many other factors to consider, and in the end, she’d look back on her memories of him with complete and utter disdain, if she bothered to look back on her memories of him, at all . . .

He took his time, drawing a cup of water from the kitchen faucet. Staring out the window that looked out into the forest beyond, he watched as the silvery light of the waning moon tried in vain to break through the dense convergence of the trees. The calm that normally soothed him during time spent observing nature eluded him, and he sighed, refilling the glass before retrieving a bottle of water from the refrigerator for Isabelle. He wasn’t sure why she insisted on drinking bottled water. God only knew that she didn’t care at all about her health otherwise. Maybe it was a conditioned response from having grown up in Tokyo, Japan. Larger cities like that tended to have more chemicals added to their water supplies, and even if they weren’t dangerous, he could understand the aversion to drinking it, too. Here in Maine, though, the water was clean, and the air was fresher than in many parts of the country and maybe even the world. It was one of the reasons that Griffin had ended up here . . . if there had really been any reason to it.

With a sigh, he headed back into the living room, setting the bottle of water on the coffee table beside Isabelle’s laptop before he shuffled over to his desk, retrieving the journal and another notebook. He sank down on the sofa beside her. Returning to his desk was just too much for him to consider. His bones ached from the hours spent hunched over in the unforgiving wooden chair. If he forced himself to sit there much longer, he’d be more than a little sorry for it come morning.

She was still immersed in the research notes, idly gnawing on her bottom lip. The illumination of the dancing fire on the hearth lent a golden glow to everything about her, the halo of light from the small lamp on the occasional table beside the sofa doing precious little to dispel the illusion. The tinge of rosy pink in her cheeks brought to mind another face, another time: a face that was always smiling, laughing . . . the same laughter that haunted his very dreams . . .

Shaking himself abruptly, Griffin cleared his throat and opened the journal once more. He was almost finished with it—small consolation since there were still two huge tomes of research left to translate, both of which were roughly five times the size of the paltry journal. At the rate he was going, it would take six months or better just to finish translating the research, and even then, he’d have to help her as she tried to make sense of it since the translations might need to be re-evaluated since there was often more than one way to translate a given passage.

“It’s a lot of work, isn’t it?” she asked, her tone a little rueful though she didn’t look up from the notebook.

Griffin paused as he dug his glasses out of his pocket to spare a glance at the woman. “It’s fine,” he mumbled, catching the end of one earpiece and levering the glasses open.

She heaved a sigh and let the notebook fall onto her lap, rubbing her face with both hands. “I really appreciate your help, you know. If it hadn’t been for you . . .”

“Don’t worry about it,” he grumbled, his tone unnecessarily sharp; a direct result of the softness, the gentleness in her voice. Teasing one minute only to turn around and say something completely serious the next . . . she perplexed him, challenged him on so many levels, didn’t she?

“Thank you.”

He snorted. “Shut up, will you? The sooner I get this done, the sooner I can get you out of my hair.”

Her soft laughter filled the room with a heartening warmth, and Griffin blinked quickly, unable to reconcile himself to the overwhelming feeling that he couldn’t quite place. Why could the very sound of Isabelle’s laughter make him remember days long past; times spent watching in silence while _she_ frolicked and played? Those days seemed so very long ago, yet the comfort that the memories afforded him was within his reach when Isabelle laughed . . . It was a comfort he rarely allowed himself. Still, somehow Isabelle managed to draw it closer, soothing his ragged soul without even really trying at all . . . and that made her far more dangerous than Griffin could really credit . . .

She didn’t argue with him, much to his surprise. Turning her attention to the notes once more, she settled herself against the back of the sofa and yawned again.

The scratch of his pen on the paper was complimented by the occasional whisper of pages being turned in the notebook, and Griffin was grateful for the companionable silence as he worked. He still wasn’t sure if Dr. Carl Carradine was brilliant or stupid. He supposed maybe the man had been a little bit of both. After all, he’d managed to do what he’d set out to do, hadn’t he? In the jumbled text that was so difficult to transcribe, Griffin had to admit that if Carradine had wanted to protect his research, he had accomplished that very, very well.

A sudden weight registered in his mind, slowly at first, like the thawing of snow during the warming days of spring. It took a moment for him to realize just what it was, and he frowned when he saw that Isabelle had fallen asleep. Leaning on his shoulder, her expression soft, relaxed, she seemed more fragile, more delicate than anything he could credit. Like an angel descended from heaven or a devil in disguise she uttered the softest of sighs, nostrils quivering slightly as her dusty pink lips parted. The gentleness that she hid so easily behind the façade of those piercing golden eyes shone through, shattered the darkness that had been Griffin’s stomping grounds for far, far too long.

She trusted him— _really_ trusted him. The knowledge was vast and frightening, akin to balancing on the edge of a great precipice where one false move could plunge them both into oblivion. She could be the end of him, couldn’t she? Simply, easily . . . everything seemed to converge in her; a lifetime of ugliness tempered by the beauty of one solitary figure who would remain forever out of his reach.

She’d hate him when all was said and done, and why wouldn’t she? Some sins were far too potent that not even God could forgive them. Punishment came in all forms, didn’t it, and maybe that was the greatest truth of them all. As easily as Isabelle smiled at him now . . . it would all change in the course of an instant if she ever learned the awful truth.

Still he couldn’t help but stare at her as seconds ticked away, marked by the indelible chime of the clock. There was no solace for a condemned man, and as much as he wished it were otherwise, he knew that some things simply could not be forgotten.

With a sigh, Griffin shrugged his shoulder in a half-hearted effort to rouse the sleeping woman. It didn’t work. In fact, she seemed to snuggle a little closer, and while it’d be far more comfortable to believe that she knew what she was doing, in his heart, he allowed that she didn’t. Exhausted, or so she seemed. Working twelve hour shifts and occasionally, an eighteen hour one here and there—at the emergency room only to come home and devote herself to wading through the translations he’d finished while she was gone was taking its toll on her, and in the end, he could only sigh as he carefully leaned to the side, nabbing the thick afghan off the back of the sofa to cover her up. She sighed—more of an insular breath than a real sound, but she almost smiled in her sleep, and for a moment—just for a moment—Griffin almost smiled, too.

“ _Sometimes what you believe is worse than the truth of it_ . . .”

Shaking his head, Griffin wished for one fleeting moment that he could believe the words Maria Masta had spoken so long ago. She’d said it while cleaning his wounds, and he hadn’t believed her back then, either. Slowly, so slowly, he’d developed a grudging respect for the human woman, hadn’t he? He’d forgotten somewhere along the way that humans weren’t all bad, and she’d reminded him. Oh, yes, she’d reminded him . . .

But Attean and Maria had troubles of their own. He was a hanyou; she was human, and he was half Indian, to boot. The white settlers didn’t trust him, and Attean’s mother’s tribe didn’t consider him one of their own, either. It was the same with youkai. The stigma of the hanyou still existed back then. Maria was shunned by ‘civilized society’ for having chosen to marry a ‘heathen’. Griffin could still recall the scathing glances, the hushed whispers when Attean would journey into a town for supplies, and though they’d wanted him to stay, he’d known that his presence could only worsen the situation in the end. He knew all too well that the past had a way of catching up with him, and the last thing he would do would be to put Attean and Maria in danger. So he’d left without a word in the middle of the night of a new moon, simply disappearing into the great expanse of the Canadian wilderness. Sometimes he’d travel for weeks before he’d see another living being other than plants and animals.

He’d wandered for a long time, hadn’t he? Drifting from place to place; not really a vagrant, exactly, but without any real destination in mind. He hadn’t realized that he was so close to the home territory of the tai-youkai. Truth be known, he had actively avoided any information that might have mattered to him back then. It was enough to find a place where the people didn’t shy away from him because of his scars; where people didn’t judge him because of the way he looked on the outside. He still got odd looks from time to time, or worse; those glances full of a mixture of revulsion and pity. The revulsion he could stomach, but the pity he could do without. He’d earned his scars, hadn’t he? Branded by a trial of fire and tears . . .

And yet a certain part of him had wished that Isabelle would look at him like that. He’d wanted it from her, hadn’t he? The pity . . . the horror . . . If she’d done that—if she’d ever looked at him with those emotions in her gaze, it’d be easier to keep her at bay, wouldn’t it? Then it would be so much easier to convince himself that she . . . that she was just too damn far away.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _Maybe he’s not so grumpy, after all_ …


	12. Irritation

Mamoruzen Gunnar Inutaisho sat back in the chair and cleared his throat. “So are you going to tell me?”

Isabelle blinked and carefully studied her menu without meeting her cousin’s steady gaze. “Tell you . . .?” she echoed.

He wasn’t buying, which didn’t really surprise her. Mamoruzen had always been a little too quick to let much slip past him unnoticed. “Okay, you want to do this the hard way. Fine.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mamoruzen,” she lied, batting her eyelashes in a show of over-exaggerated innocence.

His eyes brightened at the perceived challenge that she had unwittingly offered him, and he snorted. “Cut the crap, Izzy.   You can’t bullshit me.”

Pursing her lips as she closed the menu and set it aside, Isabelle leveled a no-nonsense look at her beloved cousin and slowly shook her head, carefully straightening the cuffs of her cream angora sweater. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she insisted, pasting on a small little smile meant to reassure him.

“The hell,” he scoffed, curling his upper lip back in a contentious snarl that did nothing to diminish the stunning façade he presented. No, if anything, the expression only served to add to the overall feeling of contrived indifference that he was an expert at projecting. “I want a name, Isabelle, and I want it now.”

“A name? That’s pretty vague. Will any name do?”

He narrowed his eyes, and Isabelle sighed. “Don’t be cute,” he warned.

“All right; all right,” she relented with a wave of her hand. “It’s not a big deal, do you hear me? He’s just a friend; that’s all.”

“Just a friend? You’ve moved in with ‘just a friend’?” Gunnar pressed.

“It’s not what you think,” Isabelle insisted then grimaced. “Though it isn’t from lack of trying on my part . . .”

Gunnar shook his head and drummed his claws on the highly lacquered table top. “I think I shall pretend I didn’t hear you say that,” he warned.

Isabelle rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the laugher that escaped her. “Oh, _please!_ Since when have you been all prudish?”

He made a face. “You’re a woman, Izzy. Women should be a little less . . . vocal . . . about certain things.”

“So you say . . . Look, Mamoruzen, I’m not one of your little toys, and I don’t have a problem admitting that I like having sex . . . lots of sex . . . _hot_ and _passionate_ sex with lots of sweat, lots of friction, and a nice grunt or two thrown in for flair.”

“Keh! First off, we’re not talking about me; we’re talking about you and your penchant for letting your heart rule your head. Second off, if we _were_ talking about me, then I’d assure you that there are never any complaints from the ladies I choose to spend time with.”

“I’m sure there aren’t,” Isabelle allowed, “and since when has following one’s heart been a bad thing?”

“It’s a bad thing,” Gunnar insisted, grasping the sweaty glass of water off the table and casually sipping the liquid in slow, measured swallows. “Keep it up, and you’ll end up no better than the rest of them.”

She sat back with a sigh, crossing her arms over her chest as she tried to decide whether or not Gunnar was being serious. She was afraid that he was. There were precious few things that he would make light of, and the subject at hand was certainly not one of them. Still, his current pique seemed to have less to do with Isabelle and more to do with other things . . . “Another nice chat with your mother, I presume?” she asked, discarding the idea of beating around the bush with it.

He wrinkled his nose and shrugged offhandedly. “Of course not. Anyway, Mother never does more than hint. I can deal with that.”

“Oh?”

He nodded. “Of course. Mother is easily distracted, you know.” With a shake of his head, he sighed, idly turning the water glass in stationary circles. “My grandfather, however . . .”

She winced in commiseration. That certainly put things in a completely different light. While it was easy enough to avoid undesirable conversation with his parents, trying to do the same to one as formidable as Gunnar’s own grandfather . . .? Well, it wasn’t a feat easily accomplished though she didn’t doubt for a moment that Gunnar did try his best. “And people wonder why you put an ocean between the two of you . . .” she mused, more to herself than to her companion.

“An ocean? A few thousand leagues or so isn’t really enough to distance myself from the long reach of Inutaisho Sesshoumaru.”

“I gather you didn’t elude him as quickly as you would have liked.”

That earned her a droll sort of lazy frown. “Well enough, but I don’t doubt for a moment that he knew exactly what I was doing. In any case, that’s neither here nor there, is it? I want that name, Isabelle, and you’re going to give it to me.”

She quirked a golden bronze eyebrow and smiled coyly. “Am I?”

She was saved from his scathing rebuttal when the waitress stopped beside their table. Gunnar made quick work of ordering for the both of them—a nasty habit of his, actually—but Isabelle didn’t gainsay him since he had ordered something she’d like. She knew from experience that this particular cousin of hers had always felt the need to exert his dominance in such a way, and she let him get away with it, too, most likely more often than she really should have. Still, it amused her to watch him. As arrogant as his grandfather he was, yet that same arrogance and almost cold façade hid a far more sensitive man than he ever liked to let on. Precious few ever saw that side of him. Isabelle was lucky enough to be one of them.

“What if I didn’t want steak?” she asked as the waitress hurried away from their table.

The amused glint lighting his gaze in his otherwise blank expression bespoke his amusement at her subtle chiding. “Beg your pardon. Would you rather have a salad?”

She couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her as she shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

He nodded slowly. “I didn’t think so.”

She laughed despite herself, interrupting their conversation long enough to check her cell phone. Though she wasn’t scheduled to work, she was pretty nearly always on call, but since the number that registered on the caller ID wasn’t the emergency room, she didn’t bother to answer it.

“So tell me what you’ve figured out from your translations thus far?” Gunnar prompted, flicking his wrist and glancing at his watch.

Isabelle paused, fiddling with the edge of her napkin as she constructed her answer. “It’s interesting,” she allowed at last, unsure why she felt the overwhelming reluctance to tell Gunnar all that she knew. Maybe Griffin’s distrustful attitude was rubbing off on her . . . or maybe it had something to do with his strange reaction when she told him she’d be going out to dinner . . .

“ _Where do you think you’re going?” Griffin demanded as she leaned her head to the side to fasten a small golden hoop earring in her right earlobe_.

 _She shifted her gaze to meet his in the mirror over the sink in the bathroom but didn’t stop fiddling with the jewelry. “I’m going out,” she said. “Don’t worry. I was going to tell you_.”

 _He snorted and crossed his arms over his chest—a sure sign that he didn’t believe her in the least. “And just who are you going with?” he parried_.

“ _Someone I’ve not gotten to spend much time with of late,” she hedged with a coquettish smile_.

 _Griffin snorted. “Don’t do anything stupid_.”

“ _I love that you care so much about me,” she remarked with a bright smile. “Don’t suppose you want to come along?_ ”

“ _Don’t suppose I do,” he said, narrowing his gaze into an irritated sort of glower_.

 _Isabelle heaved a sigh and slowly shook her head, grabbing her purse to check to make sure she had everything she needed for the evening. “Of course; of course . . . you don’t know what you’re missing, though . . . want me to bring home a . . . Pooh bag for you?_ ”

 _Griffin snorted and lumbered back into the living room as her laughter trilled in the air behind him_.

“Have you even heard a single word I’ve said to you?”

Isabelle blinked and pushed away the memory, smiling as she met Gunnar’s bored stare. “I’m sorry,” she admitted. “Wool gathering, I suppose.”

He leveled a no-nonsense look at her. “Tell me what’s so ‘interesting’ about this research.”

Glancing around to ascertain that they weren’t being eavesdropped on, Isabelle leaned in and gestured for Gunnar to do the same. He did, albeit with a dose of eye-rolling designed to let her know that he thought she was being a little extreme, and waited for her to speak.

“It . . . it’s big,” she admitted in a hushed whisper that he probably couldn’t have heard if he wasn’t hanyou, in the first place.

“Big?”

She nodded. “They isolated the gene in hanyous . . . the one that triggers the youkai response.”

His eyes widened just for a moment, but he nodded slowly. “Really.”

“Yeah . . . it seems like they were on the brink of figuring out how to counteract it.”

“You don’t say.”

“But I’m not positive how far they were into their research, so I’ve not said anything to Grandpa or anyone yet . . . no one but you, Gunnar. I want to make sure that I know exactly what they accomplished before I let the cat out of the proverbial bag.”

He digested that in silence for a moment then nodded, staring off to the side as though he were pondering her words. “I understand. Keep me posted, though. If what you say is true . . .”

She nodded and sat back, remembering the old tales that Grandma Kagome used to tell her; the stories about Grandpa InuYasha and the days of Sengoku Jidai . . . “Did they ever tell you the stories?” she asked suddenly, her gaze flashing up to meet his.

“Which stories?”

She shrugged, taking a sip of her wine before continuing. “The stories of what happened when Tetsusaiga broke . . . about Grandpa InuYasha nearly losing himself to his youkai blood . . .?”

Gunnar nodded slowly, his eyes glazing over as he, too, recounted the tales in his mind. “Yes, they did,” he said softly, idly twisting the ring on his left hand—the one that he’d told her contained the spiritual power of the monk who owned it long ago—the monk who had traveled with InuYasha and Kagome in their search for the evil known as Naraku. Gunnar’s mother had descended from the monk—Miroku—and his youkai-exterminator wife, Sango. The ring, Gunnar had said, was meant to seal his own youkai blood. Unlike Isabelle and the rest of the family on InuYasha’s side, Gunnar and his sisters didn’t have Kagome’s miko blood to temper the youkai reaction. The realization made the research that much more important to Isabelle, and she sat up a little straighter as a fresh resolve filtered through her.

“I’ll finish the research,” she promised.

He didn’t look impressed, but he shook his head and waved a hand in blatant dismissal. “Of course you will . . . but about this guy you’re living with . . . it doesn’t matter if you tell me or not. I know where he lives. I’ll just make a call to the surveyor’s office in the morning.”

That got Isabelle’s full attention, and she wrinkled her nose. “You’re overreacting, Mamoruzen. Besides, I promise you that there’s nothing even remotely shady about Griffin.”

“Griffin?” Gunnar echoed, raising his eyebrows expressively. “So does this ‘Griffin’ have a last name?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course he does . . . and save your breath because I’m not telling you.”

“Why not?”

She waved off his question to ask one of her own. “Just what do you think to do if I tell you his last name?” She nodded slowly when he didn’t answer right away, her suspicions well-founded, as far as she was concerned. “Uh-huh. You’re going to do a background check on him, aren’t you?”

The blasted man didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed at all. “That was the plan, yes,” he agreed.

She narrowed her eyes. “No.”

He quirked an eyebrow.

“I mean it. You leave him alone.”

He sat back, crossing his arms over his chest as he frowned at her like he was trying to read her mind. She lifted her chin defiantly and refused to back down in the least. “I blame this on your lack of male guidance early on,” Gunnar said slowly. “Someone has to make sure that you’re not dating a wanted felon—or worse.”

“I had _plenty_ of male guidance growing up,” she shot back, nostrils flaring as her temper rose. “Just because every other male in our family is insane about who their daughters date doesn’t make my papa a bad father, Mamoruzen, and I resent what you’re implying.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender, an indulgent little grin quirking on his lips. “Call off the dogs, Izzy, and calm down. I just mean that you’re not ever careful enough, and even your esteemed father would agree with me. If you’re not going to take your safety seriously then someone has to, even if you hate me for it.”

She heaved a sigh and sat back as the waitress set her plate on the table and refrained from comment until after the woman had hurried away once more. “I don’t hate you for it, but it’s entirely unnecessary. You sound just like Griffin, for that matter . . .”

One of his black eyebrows lifted, disappearing under the thick fringe of his bangs. “Oh?”

She shrugged, reaching for the utensils arranged beside her plate. “Honestly, I wouldn’t even be staying with him otherwise, but he’s worried that something sinister befell Jillian’s natural father, and—”

“. . . What?”

Wincing inwardly as she realized a moment too late that she’d just admitted far more than she should have, Isabelle set her fork down and carefully dabbed her lips with the napkin. “It’s nothing; I swear it.”

“Nothing?” he echoed dubiously.

“Yes, nothing,” she insisted then sighed. “There were some notes in the journal that freaked Griffin out, so he insisted that I stay with him.”

“Wait a minute . . . are you saying that he _knows_ about the research?”

“Well, yes,” she admitted, restraining the urge to rub her forehead furiously. “Gunnar . . . don’t freak out, all right? And don’t tell Grandpa. Promise.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” he retorted in a much milder tone than she’d expected despite the obvious disapproval written in his stormy expression. “Why does he know about the research?”

She couldn’t see any way around it, as much as she hated to admit. Biting her lip as she considered the best approach to telling Gunnar enough to get him off her back but not enough to send him running to Cain Zelig, Isabelle shook her head again. “Because the journal and the research notes are written in an amalgamation of languages, and while I could have translated it easily enough if it had been in just one, I can’t do it by myself now. I took it to Griffin to see if he could recommend someone at the very least, and he said that there isn’t anyone else who _could_ translate it.”

Gunnar snorted indelicately, his eyes flashing with a territorial gleam. “Well, isn’t that ironic?” he mumbled, more to himself than to Isabelle.

She shot him a scathing glance and clenched her teeth together, unreasonably irritated by Gunnar’s blatant suspicion of a man he had yet to actually meet. “Actually, it’s not. The languages are all variants of Abenaki . . . Tell me, do you know someone who could translate it?”

He rolled his eyes, unwilling to concede Isabelle’s point. “I’m sure that there are those who could. Helping you out with this could be a huge thing for your friend, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t,” she gritted out. “It’s not like that. _He’s_ not like that.” She held up her hand when he opened his mouth to argue with her. “He’s not,” she stated once more. “He doesn’t want his name mentioned in any way, shape, or form, and he certainly doesn’t want any money for doing it.”

Gunnar’s eyes narrowed in an entirely predatory sort of way. “Bullshit, Izzy. No one ever does anything in this world for free.”

“Maybe you don’t,” she contended with a shake of her head. “Not everyone is as bent as you are, though. Face it, Mamoruzen; you don’t even trust your own shadow, do you?”

He shrugged offhandedly, taking up his silverware and cutting into the steak. “Occupational hazard,” he mused. “In any case, it sounds suspicious, even if you don’t want to believe me.”

“I trust him,” she said softly, drawing a thoughtful scowl from her cousin. “Whether you believe me or not, I’m not going to change my mind. He’s a good man—a _very_ good man. I’m sure of it. Griffin’s got money of his own, anyway. He’s a professor, after all, and—”

“And professors can’t be shady? Don’t be naïve.”

“You’re being entirely ridiculous,” she insisted. “If he finds out, he’ll be furious . . . He’s very stingy with his privacy, not that I blame him.”

“Does he have something to hide?”

She was sorely tempted not to stalk around the table and shove his eyebrow back down where it belonged. Licking her lips as she tried to reign in her irritation, Isabelle pasted on a tepid smile and reached for the glass of wine near her plate. “Everyone has something to hide if they live long enough,” she remarked with a sad little shake of her head. Griffin was proud—irrefutably so, but hidden beneath that layer of staunch resolve, he was in pain, and she knew it. She wasn’t certain how she knew it, but she did. For reasons she didn’t question, she knew that no matter how noble Gunnar’s desire to protect her was, digging around in Griffin’s past wasn’t going to accomplish anything but causing him more anguish in the long run.

“So he’s old . . .” he concluded with a curt nod. “Any idea just how old this paragon of virtue is?” he demanded.

Isabelle sat back, caught off guard by that particular question. Come to think on it, she really didn’t have any clue as to exactly how old Griffin was. Then again, she’d never asked, either . . . “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I mean, I suppose he’s older . . . That’s how he seems, anyway . . . Why? Does it matter? Don’t tell me that you’re going to get all up in arms over his age, too.”

He shook his head but narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Your righteous indignation isn’t really going to sway me, Izzy,” he pointed out mildly.

“Fine,” she grumbled, fiddling with the napkin covering her lap. “You’ll owe him an apology when you figure out that he hasn’t done anything wrong.”

Gunnar finally smiled though the expression looked more predatory than pleased. “Good . . . then you won’t mind if I run a background check on him, will you?”

She bit her lip, turning her pleading eyes on him once more. “Mamoruzen, please . . . please don’t do it. Just leave him alone, can’t you?”

He seemed to be caught off guard by her soft entreaty, and he heaved a long sigh as he slowly shook his head. “I have to. It’s not just about you. He’s helping you with the research, and given what happened to Jillian, I’d be remiss if I didn’t do it, and you know it. You said yourself that there’s a good chance that it’s big, right? In that case, I cannot in good conscience ignore it especially when you don’t even know anything about the man, but . . .” He grimaced, the desire to please her manifesting in his drawn expression. “I won’t tell Cain anything if I don’t have to—unless there’s a question regarding this Griffin-character’s true intent. Good enough?”

She frowned at the table but didn’t comment. It was the best he’d offer, and she knew it. “I still think you’re being ridiculous.”

“Maybe . . . and if he checks out, then I’ll be more than happy to admit that I was wrong. I’ll even let you tell me that you told me so.”

That got her attention, and she almost smiled—almost. Gunnar didn’t like to admit that he was wrong, ever. That he would offer to do so in any capacity at all . . . It spoke volumes, as far as Isabelle was concerned.

“Then you’d better get ready to eat that slice of humble-pie, Mamoruzen,” she said, finally allowing herself to grin as she took up her utensils once more.

“You’re that certain?”

Her smile grew secretive, and she couldn’t help the twitching of her lips as she shrugged in a completely nonchalant sort of way. “You’d be certain, too, if he was your mate.”

Gunnar snorted loudly, making a show of rolling his eyes as he drained his glass of wine, but he didn’t argue with her, either.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Gunnar_** :  
> … _Her mate, huh_ …


	13. Dormant Emotion

“So who is he?”

“Him? That’s Griffin.”

“Oh . . . he’s _cute!_ ”

“Isn’t he?”

“Doesn’t talk much, does he?”

“No . . . though he’s coming around a little bit . . .”

“Well, good . . . it’s not healthy to keep everything to yourself.”

“I know. I’ve tried to tell him that . . .”

“Rather reminds me of my Gavvie that way.”

“You think so?”

“Mhmm.”

Griffin stifled a sigh and dropped the pen on the desk with a pronounced clatter before pushing himself to his feet and stomping out of the living room toward the kitchen. ‘ _If they’re going to talk about me like I’m not there, I might as well not_ be _there_ ,’ he thought with a loud snort.

‘ _Oh, come now. It’s not_ that _bad_.’

He snorted again, snatching up his glass off the counter and filling it under the tap. ‘ _And I thought fat ass was bad . . . her aunt . . . cousin . . . whatever . . . she’s worse._ ’

‘ _Who? Jillian?_ ’

He stopped with the cup poised in midair. ‘ _You . . . you know her name . . .?_ ’

‘ _Of course I do which means you do, too . . . I_ am _a part of you, you know_.’

Griffin shook his head and gulped down the water. ‘ _There’s no way in hell I’m going back into the living room_.’

His youkai sighed. ‘ _Yeah . . . it is a little unnerving, isn’t it?_ ’

‘ _I was thinking more along the lines of ‘vastly irritating’, but sure, that, too_ . . .’

Taking his time washing out the glass before setting it on the counter beside the sink, Griffin paused long enough to straighten the dishcloth under the glass before shaking his head and heaving a long-suffering sigh. He was going to go work on the translations a little longer, but with Isabelle and her cohort in evil sitting in the living room dissecting his every move, he thought better of it.

Glancing over his shoulder at the two women as he made a beeline for the basement door, he was somewhat relieved to see that they were talking quietly and not paying the slightest bit of attention to him. Satisfied that he’d be able to escape unnoticed, he quickly unlocked the door and slipped into the stairway.

‘ _You know, they could very well be discussing us_ ,’ his youkai blood pointed out.

Wrinkling his nose, he slapped the switch to turn on the lights below and lumbered down the steps. ‘ _Don’t care so long as I don’t have to hear it_ ,’ he grumbled.

‘. . . _They think we’re good looking_ . . .’

Griffin snorted loudly but blushed just the same. ‘ _Not saying much. Look at fat ass’ dog, will you? She thinks he’s . . . cute . . ._ ’

‘ _Yeah, and another thing: she doesn’t really have a fat ass, you realize_.’

Flopping down on the ragged old sofa before swiping up the latest carving he’d been working on, Griffin made a face. ‘ _Yes, she does_.’

‘ _Uh huh. If you think so_ . . .’

It was simply not to be borne. The woman was obsessed with making his life miserable, wasn’t she? If it weren’t bad enough that she was constantly underfoot, wheedling her way into his life just a little more every day, now she’d brought outsiders into his home, too? And not just _any_ outsider, mind, but one that perpetuated her penchant for driving him absolutely insane . . . ‘ _Must be a martyr_ ,’ he grumbled.

‘ _Oh, please! A martyr? Ri-i-i-ight . . . Admit it, Griffin: you don’t really mind having Isabelle underfoot. In fact, you rather_ like _it_.’

‘ _And you’re pressing your luck_ ,’ he shot back, gritting his teeth and tightening his grip on the carving in his hand.

‘ _She’s not so bad, you know. I realize you like to think she’s the devil-incarnate, but she’s not, and . . . and she’s comfortable . . . Well, maybe not comfortable, per se, but . . . familiar . . . and you know she is, too_.’

‘ _Familiar_ . . .’ Griffin echoed, both comforted and completely repulsed by the very idea that Isabelle was insinuating herself in his life as much as she was. She frightened him, didn’t she? Maybe not frightened, but something about the feelings that she stirred deep down . . . he wasn’t sure he wanted to understand what it would mean . . . ‘ _No_ ,’ he argued feebly, brow furrowing as he swallowed hard and tried to ignore the unsettling surge of panic that swept through him. ‘ _No, she can’t . . . she . . ._ can’t . . .’

‘ _She understands a lot more about you than you’d like to believe . . . She understands more than you want her to, doesn’t she?_ ’

‘. . . _She’d never understand. She was cherished, adored her entire life, and she should have been, but . . . but she’d never understand . . . and I don’t have any right to ask her to try_.’

‘ _Yeah, because you don’t want her to . . . Thing is, that doesn’t matter, you know? She wants to, and maybe that’s enough_.’

‘ _Enough?_ ’ he spat, gaze narrowing as the tiny figurine in his hand cracked and broke. A stabbing pain registered in the depths of his conscience when the remnant splinters embedded themselves in his palm, but he barely noticed. ‘ _It’s not enough. It could never_ be _enough! What would she say if she knew . . .? What would she say if . . . if I told her . . .?_ ’ Leaning forward, letting his injured hand dangle between his knees, he buried his face in his other hand and heaved a tired sigh. ‘ _She just . . . she just feels sorry for me . . . that’s all . . . and if I told her . . . if she knew_ . . .’

She’d despise him. Of course she would. He’d cost her a lot, hadn’t he? If she ever realized that . . .

Griffin sighed. As if it weren’t bad enough to dwell on the past that he couldn’t change, she’d invited her cousin over to visit, and that was more than enough for him. Sure, he supposed that people would find Jillian Zelig Jamison charming and the like, but Griffin never had been one to enjoy being the center of attention, and that’s exactly what happened almost the very second the young woman had walked through the door.

And then . . .

Brow furrowing in an exaggerated grimace, Griffin shook his head and wondered just how Isabelle was able to twist things around to suit her so easily, which was exactly what had happened mere moments after Jillian had stepped into the house.

“ _I take it the two of you are dating,” Jillian said, her pale blue gaze sweeping over Griffin as though she were sizing him up_.

“ _N—” he began_.

“ _Uh, yeah,” Isabelle blurted, narrowing her eyes at Griffin as she shot a meaningful look at Jillian’s back then on to him_.

 _Gritting his teeth—he didn’t have to like it, even if he understood what she was trying to do—Griffin could barely contain the pronounced snort that might have drawn Jillian’s suspicions. He was the one who had insisted that no one know about the fact that he was helping her with the research, wasn’t he, and even he wasn’t stupid enough not to realize that the next logical question in Jillian’s mind would have been why Isabelle was staying with him if they weren’t lovers_.

His grimace shifted into something more akin to a scowl though his face darkened with embarrassed color nonetheless. He ought to thank her for covering up for him, he supposed. Too bad he was more inclined to throttle her, instead . . . Life had been so much simpler before Isabelle Izayoi had breezed into it . . .

No, he was definitely better off, staying out of sight and out of mind for the duration. Heaving a sigh as he uncurled his fist and grimaced at the splintered wood embedded in his palm, he slowly shook his head. Isabelle . . . Charlie . . . Jillian . . . he had a feeling that his life was never, ever going to be simple again . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“So Dr. Avis did call you, then?”

Jillian leaned against the counter and nodded as a relieved little glint entered her pale blue gaze. “Yes, he did. He said that he’d been feeling a little off . . . something about the strain of adjusting to the difference in the climate.”

Isabelle smiled, too. “Good. I’m glad that there was nothing wrong.”

Letting out a heavy sigh that lifted the bangs fringing her forehead, Jillian nodded again. “You’re telling me . . . I was starting to worry . . .” Trailing off, Jillian waved her hand and wrinkled her nose. “I’m just being silly; I know.”

“No, you’re not,” Isabelle contradicted gently, rinsing lettuce leaves under the tap and gently shaking off the excess water. “I have to admit, I was a little worried about it, myself, even though Grandpa and the others all insisted that nothing was wrong.”

“You were?” Jillian questioned as she reached for a tomato and carefully sliced it into wedges with her claws.

“Sure . . . I thought it seemed odd that Dr. Avis would simply disappear . . .”

“So did I,” Jillian allowed then shrugged as a little smile surfaced on her pretty face. “Then again, Gavvie promised he’d take me back soon so that I can talk to him a little more.”

Isabelle nodded, her brow furrowing in a thoughtful frown as she arranged the clean lettuce leaves on a dishtowel to air dry.   “And it doesn’t bother Grandma or Grandpa? That you want to talk to Dr. Avis?”

Jillian winced slightly, biting her lip as the smile disappeared only to be replaced by a slight scowl. “They say they’re okay with it,” she said slowly. “Mama always smiles and says that it’s only natural that I’d be curious about my biological parents . . .”

“But . . .” Isabelle prompted when Jillian trailed off.

With a sigh, the water-youkai rinsed her hands and slowly dried them on a clean towel. “But . . . but you know Mama. She’d bite her own tongue off before she ever said that any of this hurt her. She doesn’t seem like it bothers her that much, but then . . . but I’ve seen it on Daddy’s face a few times. It bothers him, as much as he hates to admit it, and if it bothers him, then I’m sure . . .”

“I don’t blame you,” Isabelle said softly, sparing a moment to give Jillian’s shoulders a quick squeeze. “It’s natural to wonder where you came from.”

Jillian’s smile was thin, wan, but the slight tension around her eyes ebbed away. “You’re right,” she said with a sigh. “Mama and Daddy love me. They are my parents. I just . . . I just wanted— _needed_ —to make sure that I wasn’t some sort of . . . freak.”

“You’re hardly a freak,” Isabelle chided, turning away from Jillian to retrieve the rest of the vegetables for the hearty salad she was preparing for a certain surly bear-youkai. “Anyway, I’m really glad you came by today.”

Jillian giggled, letting go of the more serious overtones of their conversation in lieu of something else entirely. “I am, too . . . and enough about me! I’ve got to get going soon since I promised Gavvie I’d be home when he got there, so . . . tell me about this Griffin . . .?”

“‘This Griffin’?” Isabelle echoed with a little giggle. “Okay . . . what do you want to know?”

Jillian shot her a raised-eyebrow-ed look. “The normal stuff,” she assured Isabelle with an impish little smile. “You know . . . how long have you been dating him? What’s his astrological sign? How impressive is his packaging?”

Isabelle blinked and let out a terse laugh. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Jillian could be as base-minded as she her brother, Evan. The young woman was far too sweet-looking, and it could be quite misleading—the main reason why it always amused Isabelle when Jillian would whisper into Gavin’s ear only to make the shy man blush down to the soles of his feet. In the end, Isabelle shook her head and waved a hand, giggling all the same. “Not long . . . I’m not sure . . . and . . . have you _seen_ the size of his hands and feet?”

Jillian thought that over and nodded slowly but couldn’t repress her laughter as she waggled her eyebrows at Isabelle. “Nice,” she approved as the impish smile turned a little cheesier. “Where did he disappear to?”

Isabelle paused, tearing lettuce leaves into manageable hunks and dropping them into the large wooden bowl. She glanced around and shrugged as her gaze came to rest on the closed basement door. Froofie was stretched out on the floor along the threshold, looking positively miserable at the perceived abandonment. She didn’t doubt for a moment that Froofie would rather be downstairs with Griffin than upstairs with her. Somewhere along the way, he’d decided that the bear-youkai was a better companion than she was, which amused her more than it upset her. If she had her druthers, she’d follow Griffin around all the time, too . . . “Oh, he’s holed up in his den,” she quipped, wrinkling her nose at her dog’s defection to the Griffin camp.

“His den?” Jillian repeated with a soft laugh. “Really?”

“Well, he won’t tell me what’s actually down there,” Isabelle allowed with a shrug. “It’s off limits.”

“Hmm, intriguing,” Jillian decided. “So how are you going to find out?”

“Everyone needs their privacy,” Isabelle insisted.

Jillian snorted. “In other words, you don’t have any good ideas yet.”

Isabelle didn’t confirm or deny that statement, opting instead to concentrate on tearing up the last of the lettuce.

“All right, I’d better get going,” Jillian said with a sigh, scooping the tomatoes together and dropping them into the salad bowl before rinsing her hands in the sink.

“Okay. I’m glad you stopped by.”

Pausing long enough to give Isabelle a quick squeeze, Jillian hurried toward the doorway as she wiggled her fingers over her shoulder in a jaunty wave.

Isabelle slipped the prepared salad in to the refrigerator and grabbed two thick steaks out of a drawer before kicking the door closed as she turned to face the stove. She’d laughed when Griffin had explained that the stove didn’t have an automatic ignition for the burners—she hadn’t realized they still made stoves like that anymore. It had taken her a couple of weeks to get used to cooking on the old appliance, and she had to admit that she rather liked the simplicity of a device that lacked the bells and whistles and timers that the newer models possessed.

In fact, everything about Griffin’s domain smacked of an era long past. As though he refused to allow himself anything that he might consider to be a ‘modern convenience’, the simplicity of his existence was oddly appealing to her.

Strange, really, if she stopped to think about it. She’d been raised by thoroughly modern parents with every comfort that money could buy. Still, she couldn’t quite shake the idea that the same things that had made life so much simpler might also have softened her a little too much. Youkai had evolved so far in the passing centuries . . . the overwhelming need to fight and to dominate had given way to the struggle to survive, hadn’t it? They’d assimilated into human society in a last-ditch effort to keep from being decimated by the human tools that had proven to be more powerful than a youkai’s will. Guns had presented the biggest threat. As fast as youkai were, there wasn’t one who could outrun a bullet. That had been the beginning of the end, she’d heard Uncle Sesshoumaru say once. They caused too much damage at one time, and while youkai could heal at remarkable rates, even the restorative powers of their bodies could not compete with the devastation that a well-placed bullet could wreak.

She’s learned these things over the years from stories and legend. Though her grandfather, InuYasha had effectively skipped the darkest of times, he’d seen enough in his life before he’d passed through the Bone Eater’s Well for the final time that he had admitted that Sesshoumaru’s edict that all youkai hide their true natures; that they try to assimilate into human society was for the best, though he’d likely bite his tongue off before he’d ever acknowledge that he thought Sesshoumaru might be right about anything at all.

Still, it made her wonder. Though Griffin had never said anything one way or the other, Isabelle knew that he was quite old. How much had he seen, and of those things, how much of it still impacted him today? Somehow she had a hard time believing that he’d always been as closed up and distant as he was now. Had he smiled much as a child? Did he laugh out loud and run and play? Did he have the same kind of memories that she had, or at least enough of them to cherish?

Arranging the steaks on a stovetop grill, Isabelle frowned when her gaze came to rest on the nondescript white plastic jar that Jillian had dropped off. It was the salve that Isabelle had asked Gin to mix up for Griffin and the main reason that Jillian had stopped by. She and Gavin were on their way back to New York City but had opted to swing through Maine because Jillian had wanted to spend a little time with her parents, probably to reassure them that she still adored them both as much as she ever had.

‘ _Dr. Avis is fine_ . . .’ she thought slowly, gnawing on her bottom lip as her frown deepened. ‘ _What does that mean . . .? Griffin was wrong, after all . . . at least about the danger, wasn’t he? And if he was wrong about that, then where does that leave me . . .?_ ’

She sighed and shook her head, making a face as she shifted her gaze around the small but meticulously clean kitchen. She knew what it meant, didn’t she? It meant . . . it meant that she could go home . . .

Damned if that idea sat well with her. She didn’t really want to go home; not yet. It was too easy for Griffin to keep his distance from her. She’d started to think that maybe she was making some progress, even if it was only what amounted to baby-steps. Still, she’d take what she could get, but if she moved out, he’d be able to push her away; she knew he would.

‘ _And maybe that’s for the best, too, Isabelle,_ ’ her youkai voice chimed in.

‘ _That can’t be true_ ,’ she thought with a snort. ‘ _He’s been alone for long enough. It’s about time he realized that he can’t be alone forever. Everyone needs someone, don’t they? What’s wrong with the wish that his someone could be me?_ ’

‘ _There’s nothing wrong with that wish, no, but you misunderstand. You’re smart. You know what I’m talking about. Griffin has his reasons, and whatever they are, he doesn’t have any intention of telling you about them_.’

‘ _Maybe . . . I also know that he doesn’t dislike me, even if he wants to . . . even if he tries to tell himself that he does. He needs me; I can_ feel _it. He needs me, and I . . . I want to help him_.’

‘ _Nice way to put a pretty face on it. Need I remind you that you’re nothing at all like either of your grandmothers? You’re just a doctor, and while you might be able to mend broken bones and cure sickness, you’re not the kind that can heal a broken spirit_.’

She grimaced and shook her head as she flipped the steaks over on the grill. That was true, she supposed. Kagome and Gin . . . they were healers in every sense of the word, weren’t they? Kagome had undisputed spiritual powers; powers that even Sesshoumaru acknowledged. In that vein, she’d been able to break through the bleakness that had been InuYasha’s world for so long, and in her own way, she’d taught him that life was worth living, and that love was something precious; something worth fighting for. Gin had done the same thing with Cain, hadn’t she? She’d saved him in every way that mattered without really trying, at all, and as much as Isabelle might wish she could do the same, she knew, didn’t she? She would never, ever be like them . . .

She was too impatient, like her mother; too impulsive. She had a tendency to push too hard and to act before she really thought things through. Or maybe she was too much like her father; a one-track mind that would not rest until she’d gotten whatever it was that she wanted . . .

‘ _Those two things are a dangerous combination_ ,’ her youkai voice chided. ‘ _It’s gotten you into your fair share of trouble over the years, and if you stomp in there with all guns blazing, all you’ll end up doing is pushing Griffin further away_.’

‘ _All right; all right! I’m a lost cause! I got that . . . Still_ . . .’

‘ _No, that’s not what I’m saying at all, Isabelle. I’m telling you that your normal no-nonsense approach just isn’t going to work with that man, and you know it. For once in your life, you need to stop and consider another way to go about this . . . if you really want to help him . . . if you really want to be with him_. . .’

‘ _He’s my mate,_ ’ Isabelle insisted, rising on tiptoe to pull two plates off the top shelf of the cupboard. ‘ _I know it, and you know it . . . and if we know it, then he knows it, too_.’

‘ _That’s the thing, Isabelle . . . just because he might know on some level doesn’t mean he’s realized it or admitted it to himself, and even you have to admit that Griffin can be a little strange when it comes to certain things_.’

‘ _Then what do you suggest, O wise one?_ ’

Her youkai blood laughed softly. ‘ _Show him_.’

‘ _Show him? I thought you said that I needed to practice subtlety. I’d hardly call showing Griffin the goods ‘subtle’_.’

‘ _That’s not what I’m talking about,_ ’ her youkai scoffed. ‘ _I meant show him that he likes to be with you . . . show him that he can be happy, after all_.’

Isabelle paused as she arranged salad in the large bowl that Griffin seemed to favor before reaching for the canister of dried cranberries on the counter. ‘ _That he likes to be with me, huh . . .?_ ’ A slow smile spread over her features as she sprinkled a few cranberries over his salad followed by a handful of lightly roasted pine nuts. ‘ _I . . . I can do that_ . . . _I know I can_ . . .’

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Griffin slumped to the side in the overstuffed recliner and sighed as he propped his forehead on his fingertips and scowled at the journal in his hands. The dull ache behind his eyes was ignored while he worked. It wasn’t uncommon, anyway. He was used to minor aches and pains—he’d lived with them for the greater part of his life. They were minor annoyances at best; irksome, surely, but easily ignored.

Maybe he ought to go on a walk. It would probably help to loosen up his overly stiff joints since he felt quite bad otherwise. He’d spent too much time sitting today—something he normally paid very close attention to since the alternative was a fitful night spent tossing and turning that often resulted in one of his legs going numb. Attean had mentioned once that the pain and stiffness were probably caused by the overabundance of scar tissue he’d accumulated on the majority of his body, and he’d even mentioned that a good surgeon could probably do something about it. It wasn’t something that Griffin had ever really considered, though. The pain was a reminder, wasn’t it? Otherwise, it’d be a little too easy to forget . . .

‘ _You can’t really believe that, can you? That you could forget anything so easily?_ ’

Griffin grunted but didn’t respond. The sounds of Isabelle puttering around in the kitchen registered in the back of his mind, but he didn’t dwell on that, either.

She’d been uncharacteristically quiet during dinner. Come to think of it, she’d been strangely quiet all evening. He wasn’t sure if he should be worried or grateful for the reprieve . . .

‘ _Yeah? So why did her odd silence worry you then?_ ’

Setting the journal aside so that he could scratch Charlie’s knobby head, Griffin snorted. ‘ _It didn’t. It was_ nice _. She wasn’t babbling on and on about nothing for once._ ’

‘ _Sure, it was_ ,’ his youkai agreed despite the hint of sarcasm that Griffin could discern. ‘ _Something was on her mind, and that bothered you . . . Admit it, why don’t you?_ ’

‘ _Nope_ ,’ he insisted, making a face and shoving the dog back down when Charlie tried to climb into Griffin’s lap. “You’re as bad as she is,” he grumbled.

Charlie whined and wagged his tail in reply.

Speaking of ‘her’ . . .

Griffin glanced up only to do a classic double-take as Isabelle marched into the living room with a white plastic container in one hand and a clear glass jar of honey roasted pecans in the other—one of the big ones that reminded Griffin of the huge pickle jars that he’d seen in bulk grocery stores. She didn’t even spare him a second glance as she set the container on the coffee table and proceeded to sink down on the sofa, flipping the air-tight lid on the jar and settling down with the pecans.

He narrowed his gaze, scowling in intense concentration at Isabelle’s snack. When it became obvious to him that she had no intention of sharing he snorted out loud and pushed himself to his feet, crossing the living room floor in a matter of three long strides before reaching for the jar cradled in Isabelle’s lap only to have them neatly whisked to the side despite the fact that she still hadn’t looked at him even once. “These are mine, Pooh Bear. I bought them with my own money.”

“Dogs don’t like pecans,” he maintained, grabbing for the jar again and missing when she scooted away to the other end of the sofa.

“This dog does,” she insisted, popping a nice, fat honey roasted pecan half into her mouth. “Mmm . . .”

He couldn’t contain the low growl that escaped as he tried to nab the jar for the third time—and missed again. “Consider them your rent,” he grumbled, intercepting her hand when she tried to feed herself yet another pecan. Forcibly guiding her hand to his mouth, he bit it, letting his teeth scrape over her fingers as fair warning, as far as he was concerned.

She giggled and scooted further away, wrapping both arms around the jar of pecans to protect them from Griffin. “You want these?” she goaded, arching an eyebrow in a completely coquettish way.

“Hand them over, girly.”

Her grin widened. “Okay, okay . . . on one condition.”

“What sort of condition?” he demanded, his frown as foreboding as he could make it as he snagged another pecan out of her fingertips and stuffed it into his mouth.

Isabelle laughed. “I’ll let you have this jar of nuts if you let me do whatever I want . . . for twenty minutes.”

“You’ve got to be crazy if you think I’ll agree to any such thing,” Griffin growled, cheeks pinking as he furiously tried not to think about exactly what Isabelle had in mind for those twenty minutes. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. A few ideas did flit through his brain—ideas that he didn’t even want to consider. Knowing Isabelle, she just wanted to torture him . . .

Her laughter escalated, having obviously interpreted the look on his face correctly, and she waved her hand, contorting her body to the side when he swiped at the jar of nuts once more. “I assure you, Dr. G, if _that’s_ what I had in mind, I’d have asked for a hell of a lot longer than twenty minutes.”

He could feel the rush of hot color burning under his skin and growled. “Never can tell with you,” he shot back. “Just hand over the pecans, will you?”

“Twenty minutes, Griffin,” she reiterated. “You agree, and I’ll let you have the whole jar.”

“Forget it,” he growled, wondering if he’d be fast enough to grab the jar and make it to the basement before she had a chance to retaliate. No, he probably wouldn’t be . . . But damn it, he wanted those pecans . . .

“Oh, come on, doctor! Surely you can withstand twenty minutes,” she goaded.

“Depends,” he grumbled, “and there’s no way I’m willingly subjecting myself to any of your debased schemes for nearly half an hour.”

“Twenty minutes,” she nearly sang once more.

Griffin snorted. “. . . Five.”

“Five?” she echoed with a shake of her head. “For this huge jar? You’ve got to be kidding. Ninteeen.”

“Five.”

“Seventeen.”

“ _Five_ ,” he stated flatly, crossing his arms over his chest as he glowered at the infuriating woman.

She shook her head. “Going once . . .”

He growled.

“Going twice . . .”

Griffin made a face. “. . . Ten.”

Isabelle’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Fifteen. Final offer.”

“Ten.”

“Fifteen.”

He couldn’t help the low growl that started somewhere deep within him only to escalate slowly.

She heaved a sigh and shook her head, rolling to her feet as she dug a handful of pecans out of the jar and held them over her head. “Fifteen . . .” she said seconds before the first pecan fell into her mouth.

Griffin grimaced. “Nothing _bad_ , right?” he demanded.

She rolled her eyes but let the rest of the pecans in her hand fall back into the jar. “Fine, fine, nothing bad . . . but fifteen full minutes—and no complaining.”

He wrinkled his nose and let out a deep, frustrated breath, feeling like a condemned man on his way to face the gallows. “Fifteen minutes . . . that’s it,” he grudgingly agreed.

A brilliant smile was his reward as Isabelle handed over the jar of pecans with a flourish. She swiped the white plastic container off the table and spared a moment to smile at him again before biting her lip as she stared at him in an entirely too-calculating sort of way.

‘ _I don’t trust her_ ,’ he thought with an inward snort as he shoved a handful of honey roasted pecans into his mouth.

‘ _Oh, relax . . . she promised she wouldn’t do anything bad_.’

‘ _Bad is a relative term_ ,’ Griffin shot back caustically as Isabelle tapped a delicate claw against her lips thoughtfully, ‘ _and Isabelle is_ relatively _bad_.’

‘ _Yeah, well, you know, you didn’t have to make her promise that she wouldn’t do anything ‘bad’ during her fifteen minutes_ ,’ his youkai chided.

Griffin’s retort was cut off when the woman in question abruptly grabbed his arm, neatly tucking it between her body and her own arm to effectively hold him in place—though he could have pulled away easily enough, he supposed, but a deal was a deal, even if he was starting to wonder if he hadn’t been a little rash in agreeing to her terms . . . ‘ _Wh . . . what is she doing?_ ’ he wondered, his glower darkening as she carefully unscrewed the lid on the plastic container. He ought to have paid a little more attention to that, he supposed as he wrinkled his nose and tried to sniff the thick white cream inside without being too obvious about it.

‘ _G-G-G-Griffin . . .?_ ’

‘ _Huh?_ ’

“ _M-maybe this was a b-bad idea_ . . .’ his youkai choked out harshly.

Blinking to clear his mind, he scowled at the strangled tone of his youkai’s voice. ‘ _Eh?_ ’

‘ _Your . . . arm_ . . .’

It took a moment for Griffin to grasp just what his youkai meant, but when he did, he couldn’t smother the sharp intake of breath that whistled into his lungs as his arm tensed of its own accord; as he pulled against her tightening grip as she held onto his wrist. His arm was indeed in a precarious state, sandwiched between her arm and her body—most pointedly, her breast—and the way she was holding onto his hand . . . Well, it was safe to say that any closer would have his hand effectively smashed between said-breasts, and while the idea wasn’t completely loathsome, it was far more inviting than it ever should have been. “Listen, girly,” he forced himself to say, his voice a lot gruffer than he’d intended.

She rolled her eyes and shot him a quelling glance as she cocked and eyebrow and dug a glob of cream out of the container and rubbed it between her palms. “Fifteen minutes, Griffin. You agreed so deal with it.”

Snapping his mouth closed as he fought back the heinous stain of a tell-tale blush, Griffin growled low in his throat and tried to pull away once more.

Her hands—hot and slick, closed over his as her arm smashed down to lock him in place. Gently—a little _too_ gently, she carefully rubbed the cream into his hand, massaging the scar tissue that still gave him twinges of discomfort despite her obvious desire not to hurt him. “What do you think you’re—?”

“This is a special ointment my grandmother made up. It should reduce the swelling in your joints and help with the pain,” she cut in, her voice soft despite the determined set of her jaw. “But you have to apply it often for it to work best. Don’t worry; it’s all natural.”

He snorted. “Don’t need it,” he grumbled under his breath, more to himself than to her.

She rubbed the expanse of skin between his index finger and thumb, and he grimaced. “Of course you don’t,” she agreed in what could only be described as an indulgent tone.

“I don’t,” he maintained stubbornly.

“I know.”

He snorted, his gaze shifting to the slope of her breasts once more. When he realized what he was staring at, he gritted his teeth, willing himself not to blush and failing miserably. It didn’t do any good to keep his gaze averted. No, he could still feel the heat of her body radiating from her skin . . . “Do you have to manhandle me?” he grumbled.

She shot a quick glance over her shoulder at him, her eyes narrowing as she stared at his ruddy face. “Suck it up, big boy. I’m not hurting you.”

His answer was a scathing grunt that she summarily ignored while she grasped his arm more firmly, bearing down with her elbow—not uncomfortable, per se, but enough to draw even more attention to the dubious placement of his hand in relation to her body. Snapping his mouth closed—it was suddenly dry—he tried to force his gaze away again but couldn’t. If he turned his arm just the tiniest bit . . .

‘ _The hell!_ ’ he blustered in his head.

‘ _Hush, Griffin . . . just go with it_ . . .’

‘ _G-g-go with it?_ ’

His youkai groaned softly.

“It’s been fifteen minutes already,” he blurted, desperately trying to get a grip on his rioting emotions.

“It has not,” she argued. “It hasn’t even been _five_ minutes.”

“Hmph,” he gritted out, tamping down the rising sense of panic that surged through him when she shifted his arm, effectively bringing his forearm up and into the vale under her breasts. ‘ _No . . . no, no, no_ , no . . .’

He had to get away from her. If he didn’t, he was pretty certain that he was going to die. Held where he was, the heat of her body was magnified tenfold, and Griffin wasn’t so sure he’d survive if he didn’t find a way to put some distance between the two of them, and fast . . . She was too close, too nice, too damn hot to credit . . . he felt as though he were standing too close to a bonfire . . . or maybe he was standing _in_ it . . .

But she didn’t seem to notice Griffin’s turmoil, and that wasn’t exactly a bad thing. He wasn’t sure what would have happened if she did realize what her proximity was doing to him, and for that, at least, he was grateful.

“Anyway, I want you to promise you’ll use this stuff. I’ll have Grandma make more when you run out,” Isabelle went on, blissfully unaware of the havoc she was wreaking on Griffin’s equilibrium. She shifted slightly, allowing his arm to slide away from her and offering him a slight bit of breathing room that he sorely needed.

His grunt was noncommittal at best since he didn’t have any intention to use the cream, never mind he could feel a distinct tingle down deep—a sure sign that whatever it was, it was working. “I told you; I don’t need it.”

The expression on her face was hard to interpret. She paused long enough to stare at him for a moment before resuming her task once more. “I heard you,” she agreed mildly, “but I’d feel much better if you agreed, especially since I won’t be here to make sure you use it, and—”

It took a moment for her words to sink in. He was still more than a little distracted by the relative proximity of his hand and her body to think clearly, he supposed.   When her words finally took root in his mind, though, he scowled and nearly succeeded in jerking his arm away. “What do you mean, you won’t be here? Just where do you think you’re going?”

She paused for a moment in her ministrations before resuming her task once more. “Well, Jillian said that Dr. Avis called her just after she got back home. Seems that he’s fine, after all, so I don’t need to stay here anymore.”

Pulling his hand away and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, Griffin scowled at Isabelle, who was avoiding his gaze and trying to look as innocent as possible. “That doesn’t mean a thing,” he informed her, unable to contain the irrational surge of anger that nearly choked him.

She blinked and shook her head, finally meeting his gaze. “I thought this would make you happy . . .” she said slowly moments before she ducked her head. “I mean, I’m invading in your territory, aren’t I?”

He didn’t disagree with her. “Just because Dr. Avis is still alive doesn’t mean that you’re not in danger,” he pointed out in what he could only hope was a reasonable tone. An unsettling wave of panic shot through him at the very idea of Isabelle moving out, and he refused to give that too much thought. “He could have hired someone else to find the research.”

“Why would he—?”

“Because he did it before,” Griffin snarled, tamping down the urge to grab Isabelle by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. “Even then, what makes you so sure that Avis was the one in charge when your—your—?”

She watched him wave his hands around as he tried to come up with a term to describe Isabelle’s relation to Jillian. “Aunt? Cousin?” she supplied helpfully.

She was rewarded with a fulminating glower for her efforts. “Yes, _her_ —and your family is warped. Anyway, what makes you so sure that Avis _was_ behind her kidnapping? He could have been ordered to take responsibility. It doesn’t mean he _was_.”

Isabelle sighed and reached for his hand once more. “Haven’t we been through this already?”

He snorted indelicately. “I thought so, yes, but you apparently didn’t listen to a word I said, did you?” Griffin was agitated enough not to fight with her. He had bigger fish to fry, after all . . .

“I listened,” she rebutted as she continued to work the ointment into his hand. “I think you’re being paranoid . . . Who would ever want to hurt me?”

He opened his mouth to reply then snapped it closed again. Isabelle just couldn’t seem to understand that there really were people in the world who weren’t quite so nice; who would hurt her given the chance. It was an intrinsic part of her, wasn’t it? He’d known that from the start. Despite the street-wise demeanor she presented to the world, she really was insanely naïve in many, many ways. She hadn’t seen enough of the world to know that there were nightmares lurking in the darkness; vile things waiting to feed off the optimism she possessed . . . They wanted to take hold of her; to possess her; to kill the beautiful parts of her soul . . . and it was that part of her that scared Griffin most because it was that part of her that made him . . .

‘ _Don’t say it_ ,’ he told himself sternly, scowling down at the indelible visage of her small hands clasping his. She wasn’t a tiny woman by any means, and yet the sight of them in comparison to his . . . She reminded him of a child—no, not a child; not really . . . of a beautiful thing that he knew deep down could never, ever last. “There are people who wouldn’t think twice about hurting someone else if it meant that they’d gain something,” Griffin said at last, a note of sadness inherent in his tone. “Even if you don’t believe me, it’s true.”

“Do you care so much?” she asked quietly. Her tone lacked any real challenge though there was something in the depths of her stare; something pleading and earnest. She knew what she was asking, didn’t she? Knew that there was no way he could possibly answer her; not without giving away just a little too much of himself . . . not without losing the very last of his soul that he still retained.

Griffin looked away before he could be trapped into saying something that he’d regret. The trouble was, he wasn’t certain exactly what answer he’d regret more: that he did care or that he didn’t _want_ to care . . . “Just . . . listen to me, all right?” he grumbled.

It seemed to him that she chose her words with extra care while she studiously kept her gaze averted as though everything in the world depended upon his answer, and maybe . . . maybe it did . . . “Do you . . . _want_ . . . me to stay?”

“Course not,” he growled, cheeks pinking as a certain heat stole into his skin. “Why would I?”

She shrugged offhandedly as she massaged the scar tissue on his palm. “Of course not,” she agreed. She didn’t look at him, but he could hear the amusement in her tone.

“Humor me, girly,” he mumbled. “You’re not moving out of here until the research is finished.”

She digested that in silence, and he had to wonder if she was trying to tell herself that he was wrong. In the end, she nodded, forcing a weak smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Okay,” she agreed slowly, hesitantly, as though she didn’t want to give in. “I’ll . . . I’ll stay.”

 

 

 

 

 


	14. Jezebel

“You were attacked by the evil can opener of doom?” Isabelle said into the silence, interrupting the scratch of the ink pen in Griffin’s hand on the notebook beside him.

He didn’t look up, and he didn’t even pause. “Yes,” he said dryly, tapping his claws on the arm of the chair.

“I _thought_ so!” she exclaimed with a little giggle as she snapped her fingers.

“It says here that they were ready to start assembling a case study group,” Griffin muttered, ignoring Isabelle’s commentary as he scowled at the journal.

“Really? Then they _were_ almost finished with the research,” she mused, more to herself than to Griffin. “Wow . . . I hadn’t thought . . . then that means . . . this is _huge!_ ”

He grunted in response.

Isabelle shot to her feet and hurried over, pushing herself onto the desk and leaning forward to gain Griffin’s full attention. He looked a little surprised at her sudden show of tenacity, and he blinked quickly before leaning back and slowly shaking his head. “Seriously, Griffin! If they were ready to assemble test groups, then that means that that’s all I’ll really have to do once I study the notes! This is big—bigger than big! Bigger than my big, fat ass! Huge!”

Rolling his eyes, he didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm. “Isabelle, before you go running off thinking that you’re being given the keys to the city, you need to consider that you might want to look into it more than they had . . . and finding a study group for this sort of research might not be as simple as you think.”

“I know,” she agreed, waving a hand dismissively. “I mean, this sort of thing isn’t something you want to test on just anyone. There’re so many factors to consider . . . family ties, susceptibility . . . trust . . . I mean, this isn’t the sort of thing that you want everyone to know about, right? But that’s not the real problem. The real problem is that the ultimate test is something that I’m not sure can be handled. Think about it: hanyous only lose themselves to their youkai blood if their lives are in danger, right? We can’t go around putting people in danger just to see whether or not the inoculation worked . . .”

He sat back, tossing the ink pen down on the tablet as he finally gave Isabelle his full attention. He seemed a little surprised, but she didn’t stop to question it. No, her mind was moving a million miles a minute as she tried to comprehend the vastness of the research and of what it could mean. It was clear to her that there would have to be a way to test the hanyous, but short of nearly killing them, she wasn’t sure how.

“You can figure that out when the time comes, can’t you?” he asked slowly, grimacing as he flexed the fingers on his right hand.

Isabelle scooped some cream out of the plain white canister and reached for Griffin’s hand. “It’ll take a lot of thought, sure, but . . . there’s got to be a way, right? Maybe they wrote something in the research on how they were planning on going about the testing, in the first place. After all, if they were ready to start assembling a clinical study, then they had to have thought all this through, wouldn’t you say?”

Griffin grunted—his normal positive response—and tried to tug his hand away. “Maybe,” he agreed noncommittally. “Let go, will you?”

“Does that mean you’re finished translating the journal?” she asked, ignoring his demand that she back off.

“Yes,” he allowed, rolling his eyes as he heaved a sigh and stretched his arm out a little further. He’d given up days ago, albeit completely ungraciously, when he’d figured out that she wasn’t going to leave him alone about the salve. Still, he felt it was his responsibility to protest every time—a habit that never failed to make Isabelle smile.

She laughed, feeling entirely exultant, all things considered. “I can’t believe it,” she mused seconds before her enthusiasm seemed to wane slightly. “It’ll take longer to translate the actual research, won’t it?”

He nodded, grimacing when she hit a particularly tender spot.

Intense and immediate concern filled her gaze, and she stopped rubbing though she didn’t let go of his hand. “Oh, did I hurt you?”

He shook his head, but she could see his jaws bulging. He always said that he was fine, refusing to admit that anything pained him. She supposed it was normal for him. Griffin . . . he just wasn’t one to complain.

“Is it helping at all?”

He grunted in response. She figured it was a good enough answer. The mixture of soothing herbs was doing its job, and that was enough, she supposed. “I’ve told you, right? I don’t need that stuff.”

“So you say; so you say,” she agreed mildly enough as she studiously studied the scar tissue. Griffin snorted and tried to tug away. Isabelle responded by neatly locking his arm under hers. “Sit still,” she reprimanded when he shot her a baleful glower.

“I’ll have you know I’m _centuries_ older than you, little girl, so don’t take that tone with me,” he pointed out.

“Centuries?” she replied, arching an eyebrow but holding tight to his arm just the same. “You don’t say . . . how many centuries, Dr. Griffin?”

“ _Marin_ ,” he grumbled with a shake of his head.

“You’re ignoring the question,” she pointed out.

“I’m not,” he growled. “A few.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

“The only kind that a nosy cub like you deserves.”

“Nosy, maybe. Cub? I don’t think so,” she quipped with a gentle smile. Griffin blinked and snorted, his cheeks pinking just a touch. “Why don’t we go for a walk later?”

He rolled his eyes, probably at her inherent ability to change subjects at the drop of a hat. “I go for walks every day. You’re the one who’d rather sit around on your fat ass.”

“But you’re the one who says you’d rather eat dirt than go on walks with me,” she retorted though not unkindly. “Anyway, it’s a nice day for once. It’d be a shame to waste it, don’t you think?”

His snort was loud and quite pronounced. She didn’t doubt for a second that the man was trying to come up with a feasible reason why taking a walk with her would be a bad idea, so she was rather surprised when he ducked his chin to glower at the floor, cheeks pinking as his brows furrowed, and he shrugged. “Never said anything about eating dirt,” he mumbled so low that Isabelle almost missed it.

“So I was exaggerating a little,” she replied with a flutter of her hand before scooping a little more ointment out of the jar and retuning her attention to Griffin’s hand. “You think I’m preferable to dirt?”

“That’s not really saying all that much,” Griffin grouched. “Dirt’s pretty low on the food chain.”

“Ah, so you _will_ go for a walk with me!”

He flinched again and tried to hide it. Isabelle pretended not to have noticed. “Will it shut you up?”

She shrugged. “Maybe, but I doubt it.”

He heaved an exaggeratedly heavy sigh. “I didn’t figure it would.”

“But that’s a yes?”

“It’s a _maybe_ ,” he corrected.

“May bees don’t fly in November,” she said.

Griffin shot her a quick glance, the corners of his lips twitching the tiniest bit. Isabelle blinked in surprise and stopped to stare at him. It was as close to a smile as she’d ever seen on his face, and while it was far from what the expression should have been, it was enough to add a hint of a sparkle to his eyes, even the left one that was permanently half-closed because of the buildup of scar tissue around it. The effect was shocking, really, removing years from Griffin’s perceived age; dissipating the permanent worry lines that seemed to be embedded on his brow . . . She felt her heart skip a beat, felt it plunge all the way down to her toes before slamming back up only to lodge in her throat, and for a moment, she couldn’t do anything more than stare.

All too soon, he looked away, and the amusement she’d seen hints of dissipated. “Are you done?” he asked, tugging on his hand for good measure.

Isabelle stifled a sigh and forced a small smile. “That’ll do for now. I’ll apply more later,” she said.

His answer was a curt snort as he pushed himself out of his seat to lumber off toward the kitchen for something to drink.

She watched him go, crossing her arms over her belly as a thoughtful frown replaced the wan expression on her face. He’d completely unsettled her, hadn’t he? With nothing more than the barest trace of a smile, he’d completely taken her by surprise . . . If he really smiled, just how badly could he devastate her senses? she wondered.

A little tremor raced through her, and she closed her eyes for a moment to steady rioting senses. She had a feeling that he could possess her completely if he tried . . .

The only question was, how could she make him want it, too?

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

The steel door swung closed with a bang that echoed off the cinderblock walls as the watery light of the fluorescent bulbs high overhead flickered and danced. Rounding the corner, he ran down the steps, the soles of his shoes whispering against the marble tiled floor as he headed for the dimly lit hallway in the basement of the nondescript office building.

Chill air with the lingering stench of dampness greeted him as he strode down the corridor. The light from the stairwell evaporated, leaving behind a filmy darkness that lingered somewhere between gray and black. Blinking red lights monitored all movement—he was used to the set up by now. It used to disconcert him a little, and the first time he’d made the trek down here, he’d been unable to control the edginess that had left his hanyou ears twitching to intercept every little sound. The clank and hum of the power generator housed in the bowels of the building rattled to life as the maintenance cycle kicked in.

Checking his watch, he paused long enough to press the tiny button, illuminating the timepiece in a blue glow. Six-thirty, it said. Bas and Sydnie had stayed longer than usual. They were making progress on a case out of Brazil—a viper-youkai child who had disappeared more than ten years ago without leaving a clue as to where or why . . .

A solitary light did little to dispel the darkness, casting harsh shadows around the door at the end of the hallway. The sleeping access panel beside the door beeped once as he slapped his hand against the sensor and waited for the air lock to release.

A longer beep followed by a metallic click sounded seconds before a hiss of air signaled the release of the lock. Pushing the door open, he blinked as he stepped inside, the brighter light a little disconcerting after the dimness of the hallway . . .

“So?” he demanded, wasting no time getting straight to the point when he spotted her sitting at the large metal desk situated in the small corner cubicle she used as her make-shift office.

Myrna Loy shifted her gaze to the side, peering up at the carefully blanked expression on Gunnar’s face without moving her head—an entirely coy maneuver if he ever saw one. The halogen lamp on the desk reflected off her skin in a harsh sort of way, casting owlish shadows over her features that he supposed could be considered mysterious. From his vantage point, it all seemed a little melodramatic. “So?” she drawled without batting an eye.

She’d worked for the youkai special crimes office since its inception nearly nine years ago. She used to work for a bounty hunter organization until it had been summarily destroyed by Bas Zelig. They’d been hired to hunt Bas’ wife, Sydnie—that was how the two of them had met—and Myrna had been the sole survivor in the end. She had decided it was in her best interests to cooperate with Cain Zelig, thereby saving her neck in the process. Now she lived and worked here, and she was afforded very few freedoms. None, actually, Gunnar had to admit, though Myrna didn’t seem to mind the confinement. She was, however, treated very well otherwise. Aside from not being allowed to leave the apartment that had been specially outfitted for her, she was given every conceivable amenity as payment for her efforts.

All that aside, Myrna was the absolute best at what she did: gathering intelligence, she called it, and when Gunnar wanted to get under her skin, he called it what it really was: being nosy.

Too bad he wasn’t in the mood for any of Myrna’s little games. It’d been nearly a month since he’d set her on the task of digging up everything she could find on one Griffin Marin. If she still didn’t have anything, he’d know why . . .

“Cut the crap, will you?” he growled, unable to keep the trace irritation out of his tone. He wasn’t certain why he felt as though time was of the essence. He didn’t understand the strange unease he felt whenever he thought about the idea of Isabelle living with him. All he knew was that on some base level, something didn’t feel right to him. Maybe it was the secrecy that shrouded the bear-youkai—why else wouldn’t he want any sort of recognition for translating the research? Even then, Gunner would be lax if he didn’t do a background check on anyone who had access to that research. After all, if Dr. Avis had been willing to have Jillian Zelig Jamison kidnapped to get his hands on it, then that spoke volumes about the magnitude of the project, didn’t it? Isabelle had admitted that much, too. No, this was something that needed to be done even if Isabelle didn’t like it. In the end, she’d understand, or maybe she wouldn’t, but he’d sleep better at night if he knew exactly who Griffin was and what his ulterior motives really were.

“My, my . . . someone bite your tail, pretty puppy?” she intoned, a hint of a smile quirking her lips as she leaned back far enough to level him with an amused stare.

“Not today, Myrna,” he warned. “Just tell me you’ve found something out.”

That drew a deep sigh from her, and Gunnar’s scowl darkened. It wasn’t often that Myrna let something like that slip, and it didn’t bode well, in his estimation.

“How old is this youkai?” she countered, leveling a thoughtful frown at him.

Gunnar shook his head. “I don’t know, but I got the impression from Izzy that he’s been around for a while . . . why?”

Myrna stood up suddenly, her chair sliding back another couple of feet with the abruptness of her movement. Planting her hands on the small of her back, she rolled her head, rotated her shoulders before swiping up the empty coffee mug off the desk and striding over to the kitchen counter, her heels echoing obscenely loudly against the cold marble floor. “And if I were to tell you that he’s only forty-five?” she challenged almost nonchalantly—almost.

“Not possible,” he stated flatly. “Try again.”

She shook her head and didn’t look up as she poured coffee into the mug. “Want some?” she asked, lifting the carafe enough to emphasize the offer. Gunnar waved her off with a flick of his wrist. Deliberately taking her time, she carefully dropped one spoonful of sugar into the cup and reached for a small stainless steel spoon. “Actually, more like forty-seven if you want to be exact,” she went on, wiping the spoon against the rim of the mug before setting it on a napkin on the counter. “Almost forty-eight.”

“I told you, that’s not possible,” Gunnar reiterated, scowling at Myrna as though he believed she was being contentious for the sake of the act.

Downing the hot liquid in a series of gulps, Myrna slammed the mug down and shot Gunnar a quelling glance as she strode back to the desk to snatch a paper off the neat surface. “Griffin Marin, born April 14, 2017, in Portsmouth, Maine, making him forty-seven years old; no record of name change, no indication that he ever existed prior to that date.”

Gunnar grunted. “Parents?”

“John and Jane Marin, both deceased.”

Lips curling back in a cynical sneer, Gunnar slowly nodded. “Of course they are . . . but there’s no way in hell he could possibly be only forty-seven years old.”

“Unless Isabelle was mistaken about his age?”

That earned her a very decisive snort. “Not possible. Isabelle’s a doctor. She’d be able to guesstimate an age well enough, and I daresay she wouldn’t consider fortyish to be ‘old’, given the ages of many of her relatives that she doesn’t consider ‘old’.”

“Be that as it may, I’m telling you that this guy _did not_ exist prior to 2017—2016 if you count in-utero,” Myrna shot back, quirking an eyebrow.

“Dig deeper,” Gunnar demanded, crossing his arms over his chest as he leveled a condescending scowl at the woman.

She heaved and exasperated sigh as though Gunnar were sorely trying her patience and rubbed her forehead as she dropped the paper onto her desk once more. “There is no paper trail,” she insisted slowly, carefully, measuring her words very precisely. “None.”

“There _has_ to be.”

“Yeah, if he did exist before then, but I’m telling you there isn’t one. Either this guy isn’t nearly as old as you seem to think or—”

“Or he’s done a dead-bang job of hiding his past existence,” Gunnar cut in, scowl darkening as a hard glint entered his gaze.

“Yeah, but that’s not something easily done,” Myrna protested, dropping into her chair and rubbing the back of her neck with a tired hand. “I’ve been digging and digging for days, and I’ve been stonewalled every single time. There was no Griffin Marin and no incarnation of the name in existence prior to 2017 . . . and even if he did manage to completely reinvent himself, then there’s no real way to trace him unless we happen to stumble upon someone who knew him before.”

“Isn’t that what you’re here to do?” Gunnar challenged.

Myrna blinked and shook her head, unconsciously adjusting the small electronic locator on her wrist that monitored her imprisonment. “I suppose . . . fact remains that if he is older . . . if he was able to bury his past . . .”

Gunnar nodded, understanding Myrna’s unspoken assertion. “Then he had help. Good. It shouldn’t be so difficult to trace him. There aren’t many with the knowledge and the wherewithal to accomplish something like that; not in this day and age.”

She fell silent for a moment, as though she were considering her options. Gunnar was too preoccupied to notice. Striding over, he snagged the info sheet off Myrna’s desk and read through it with a scowl. “Completely unremarkable, huh? Average grades in school, average grades in college . . . average house, average job . . . average _everything_ . . .”

“Absolutely nothing to draw notice,” she mused as a slow smile turned up the corners of her lips. “Or maybe a little _too_ average . . . is that what you’re getting at?”

Gunnar nodded once more, golden eyes glowing with an independent light. “Something like that.”

“You know, Cain might know this guy if he really is older, don’t you think?”

Gunnar’s jaw tightened as he considered Myrna’s words. “Sure,” he agreed easily enough. “Thing is, Isabelle made me promise not to tell him about it.”

That earned him a rather droll look tinged by misplaced amusement. “Oh? And since when do you let anyone swindle a promise like that out of you?”

“Mind your own business, Myrna,” Gunnar said with a snort. “In any case, I never go back on my word.”

“Okay, you promised her you wouldn’t ask Cain . . . what about Ben? He’s older than dirt.”

“An observation that he would likely dispute,” Gunnar scoffed.

“Maybe, but you know as well as I do that Ben knows just about everyone, and if he doesn’t know them personally, it’s a fair bet that he’s at least heard of them.”

Dragging a hand over his face, Gunnar shook his head. “I thought you knew of just about everyone,” he goaded.

Myrna waved a hand in blatant dismissal. “Incidentals, my pet. As much as I’d love to brag that I do, I don’t. Anyway, you _could_ ask him.”

Gunnar snorted, restraining the desire to crumple the paper in his hand. “No, I couldn’t. If I did, Cain would know about it in a second. Ben never keeps anything from him, you realize.”

“Hmm, I suppose,” she agreed. “There are a few more people I can try . . . but I’m warning you, I’m not too optimistic that I’ll get any answers.”

“Just do what you have to do,” he retorted. “Otherwise I might start thinking that you’re slipping.”

“Bite your tongue, Gunnar Inutaisho,” she replied.

“Call me if you find out anything—and I do mean _anything_ ,” he said, letting the info-sheet float down onto the desktop once more.

“Certainly,” she allowed. “Next time you come down here, bring me a slice of cheesecake, will you? I’ve been dying for some.”

Gunnar almost smiled as he headed for the door. Not quite, but almost . . . “I’ll see what I can do,” he called back over his shoulder. “Get more information for me, and I might even bring you a whole one.”

Her laughter followed him out of the makeshift apartment. Still, he couldn’t quite shake the questions that seemed to loom even larger in his mind. All the information Myrna had managed to dig up only led to a host of improbabilities that ticked him off even more. Griffin Marin really was running from something, wasn’t he, and as much as Isabelle might not want to acknowledge it, men did not go to such lengths if they didn’t have things to hide. There was something else going on. Gunnar could feel it; there was another reason why this bear-youkai didn’t want anyone to know about his past: a deeper reason.

“ _What about Ben . . .?_ ”

Scowl darkening as he strode back down the hallway toward the stairs, Gunnar raked a long-fingered hand through his hair. It was true that Ben had met pretty much every youkai living in North America at some point or another, and it was entirely likely that he might even know Griffin Marin. Too bad Gunnar wasn’t kidding about the idea that Cain would know within the day if Gunnar made such an inquiry. Ben was loyal to a fault—not a bad thing, but . . . But he’d made that promise to Isabelle, and he’d keep it though at the moment, he sorely wished he’d told her that there was no way come hell or high water that he’d make such a vow . . .

All in all, Gunnar couldn’t help but feel like ripping something to pieces. Frustration never had sat well with the future Japanese tai-youkai, and he had a sneaking suspicion that he was going to be suffering more than his fair share of that particular emotion before the mystery surrounding Griffin Marin was solved . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle pulled groceries out of the brown paper sack and heaved a sigh, wishing she could just leave the items on the counter until after she’d gotten a little sleep but knowing that doing so would drive Griffin crazy. She’d stopped on her way home from the hospital to pick up a few things, but as it was, she just wanted to drop into her bed and not move for a few days.

It had been a really horrific day, all told. After such a nice day off the day before, she’d been rudely awakened the moment she’d walked through the doors at work when one of the nurses had thrust a clipboard into her hand, and she’d only had a moment to look over the incident report—an accident: school bus versus semi—before the first of the patients had been rushed in.

Twelve hours later, they’d finally managed to finish taking care of everyone, but they’d lost two children all totaled, and she couldn’t get the image of those two little faces out of her head. She was used to losing patients now and again, certainly, but children were always harder to reconcile in her mind.

She sighed, rubbing her eyes with a slightly shaking hand. At least one good thing had happened. One of the children’s doctors had come in to help out with the traumas, and she’d gotten a chance to talk to him later over a cup of half-cold coffee. He’d offered her a job at his local clinic: a staff position with regular hours and her name on the door, and Isabelle . . . well, she supposed that she might well be ready to make that sort of change . . .

Besides not having to work twelve or eighteen hour shifts, she’d have regular days off and more importantly, she’d be working in the area that she’d actually specialized in during college: pediatrics. All in all, it would allow her the freedom to work on the research as Griffin translated it, and she wouldn’t feel so worn down all the time. In the beginning, the satisfaction she got from helping people in their hours of need was fulfilling, and it still was, but more and more frequently of late, she’d felt so drained that she’d often wondered if she weren’t spreading herself just a little too thin, and to that end, she’d called her father since he’d understand that better than anyone.

“ _Baby, you need to do what is best for you,” he’d said in that rather philosophical tone that normally meant that he was carefully considering the way he stated something_.

 _She could hear the rattle of the newspaper as Izayoi Kichiro folded it and set it aside. “I know,” she’d allowed unhappily picking at a stray thread on the worn quilt that covered her bed. “I love helping people, but_ . . .”

“ _But it’s wearing you down,” he finished. In her head she could see him sitting in the thickly cushioned chair behind his desk in the quiet of his study, his gaze trained out the generous windows that lined the far wall and overlooked the backyard in the midst of InuYasha’s Forest on the outskirts of Tokyo. “Maybe it’s time to look for something else—something a little less stressful_.”

 _She smiled a little sadly, a little ruefully. “You wouldn’t think I was taking a cop-out, would you?_ ”

 _He snorted. “Hell, no. Admitting that you’ve had enough of something isn’t a cop out, Baby-Belle, and you know it_.”

“ _Thank you, Papa_.”

 _He chuckled, the warmth, the richness of the sound comforting her even over the expanse of distance between them. “You’re welcome . . . and maybe it’s time for a visit home?_ ”

 _Her smile broadened as a soft laugh escaped her. “Soon, I promise. Give Mama my love._ ”

“ _Absolutely_.”

 _And the line had gone dead_.

“You all right?”

Isabelle squealed and jumped when the rumble of a deep voice shattered the reverie. She hadn’t heard Griffin enter the room, and he scowled at her. “For the love of all that is holy, woman, _must_ you do that?” he grumbled.

Clutching her chest, she slumped against the counter and drew a few deep, steadying breaths. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

That earned her an even darker scowl, and Griffin grunted tersely before digging into the bag. “Clean out your ears once in a while.”

She managed a weak laugh at that but it was cut short by a wide yawn. Griffin cocked an eyebrow at her as he slipped a few packages of steak into the meat drawer. For a moment, she thought he was going to make some sort of comment. He didn’t, though he did shake his head slowly as he continued to put things away.

Froofie wandered into the kitchen, his claws clicking lightly against the wood floor. He looked up at Isabelle and wagged his tail then glanced at Griffin and whined softly.

“Forget it, fat-so. You just _think_ you’re still hungry,” Griffin remarked.

Isabelle couldn’t help the little smile that surfaced. “Are you still insisting that he only needs to eat once a day?” she countered.

“Yes,” he said.

“But my baby’s a growing boy; yes he is!” she crooned, hunkering down and grasping Froofie’s ruff of hair as she smacked a loud kiss on the animal’s head.

Griffin snorted. “He’s not a baby, and he’s not growing,” he complained. “He’s fine; _just_ fine.”

Isabelle wrinkled her nose but let go of the dog and pushed herself back to her feet. “So you say, Dr. G., but _he_ says he’s hungry.”

“Forget it,” Griffin asserted, carefully folding the paper sack and pulling another one toward him. “Did you buy the entire grocery store?”

“Hmm, just half of it,” she quipped, reaching around him to delve into the bag.

He slapped her hand and nudged her with his shoulder. “Back off, girly. I’m busy; can’t you see?”

Waving him off as she stifled another yawn with the back of her hand, Isabelle couldn’t answer right away. “Since when do you take any sort of interest in the groceries that I buy?”

He shot her a droll look. “Since I’ve decided that you do a terrible job of feeding yourself,” he shot back.

“Oh?”

“Hmph. Yes. From now on, you’re not allowed to go grocery shopping, and I use that term very loosely.”

Arching an eyebrow as she contemplated the wide expanse of Griffin’s back, Isabelle bit her bottom lip and smiled to herself. Opening the cupboard behind her, she retrieved the bag of honey roasted pecans that she’d already put away. “All right, but if I can’t go grocery shopping anymore, then just who is going to buy these for you?” she countered.

He stopped still and slowly glanced over his shoulder as Isabelle’s triumphant grin widened. Standing the way he was, she could only see the scarred side of his face, and she couldn’t help the little flutter that welled up inside her. Though she’d realized long ago that his scarring really did bother him, she couldn’t help but think that what he viewed as imperfections were perfect on him, just the same. The scars didn’t diminish the effect he had on her; not in the least. The mysterious air it lent him unsettled her completely, and maybe that was the real reason she’d been so drawn to him in the beginning. She’d never met another man like him, and she knew that she never would again.

But he turned to face her, his gaze never leaving the bag she held in her hand. She opened her mouth to tell him that maybe if he asked nicely, she’d consider sharing with him. He shot his hand out, snagging the bag, and neatly plucked it out of her grasp, turning on his heel and striding out of the kitchen, leaving a gape-mouthed Isabelle staring rather dumbly in his wake.

“Oh, it’s _on!_ ” she muttered under her breath, darting out of the room to intercept the pecan thief. “Hand them over, big guy,” she said, catching his arm and tugging.

He shook her off easily enough. He’d already managed to open the bag—the twist tie was lying on the dining table—and was in the process of eating, looking absolutely triumphant as he made a show of dropping the pecans into his mouth, one by one. “I told you before. These are rent.”

“I already paid your ‘rent’,” she insisted, reaching for the bag and growling when he neatly whipped them away, hefting them over his head so that she couldn’t reach them. “Now share!”

“Sharing’s overrated,” he stated flatly.

“Spoken like a true spoiled man,” she rebutted, hopping up in hopes of snagging the bag, to no avail. “You know damn well that you _want_ to share your nuts with me.”

“Oh, I don’t think I do.”

She couldn’t help the secretive little grin. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She sauntered closer, ran the tip of her claw down the center of his blue cotton shirt. “But I promise you: you’d like it if you let me . . . share your nuts.”

He blinked suddenly, face reddening as the implications of her double entendre sank in, and Isabelle laughed. “Jezebel,” he mumbled as the color in his cheeks darkened just a little more.

“Jezebel?” she echoed, pondering his accusation for a full minute before throwing her head back and laughing. “Jezebel! I love it!”

“You _would_. It wasn’t a compliment.”

“I’ll be your Jezebel,” she promised with a wink.

“I don’t think so,” he said with as much finality as he could muster, “and you’re breaking your promise.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, your promise. You said you’d agree not to hit on me while I translated your research notes.”

She heaved a sigh and stepped back, letting her arms drop at her sides in abject defeat. “That was a deal forged by Loki,” she informed him.

“But you agreed.”

She made a face but nodded once. “That doesn’t mean you get to keep that entire bag for yourself,” she said, hopping up and down once more as she tried in vain to snag the pecans.

Griffin grunted. “Knock it off before you break the floor,” he said.

“Good. I’ll get the nuts back _and_ get to see what you’re hiding in the basement!” she retorted as she kept hopping.

“Face it, fat ass; you’re too short to do anything but talk big.”

She snorted and glanced around before scrambling onto one of the dining room chairs and leaning against Griffin’s shoulder as she stretched to reach the bag. “We’ll see about that, Dr. Marin.”

“Ugh, you weigh a ton,” he complained waving his arm almost lazily, taunting her without words since she still couldn’t reach the pecans. “Don’t break my chair.”

“As if!”

“Well, your ass is as big as the entire eastern seaboard, so—” he started to say but was cut short when a loud, splintering crack boomed through the house.

It happened so fast that Isabelle didn’t have time to scream. The world became a blur of motion as the chair buckled beneath her, and the sensation of falling was interrupted as two strong arms caught her. Squeezing her eyes closed, she swallowed hard, willing the painful pounding of her heart to still as she tried to understand just what had happened. The house was dead silent aside from the tremendous thumping echoing in her ears, and in the chaos, it took her a moment to discern what it was.

Griffin was holding her so tightly that she couldn’t rightfully breathe. Smashed against his chest, the sound she heard was the erratic pounding of his heart. Gradually, his grip loosened though he made no move to let her go, which was fine with Isabelle. Leaning back in his arms, she opened her eyes only to see that he had his squeezed closed, his face leeched of color and looking quite pale in the graying light of evening filtering through the windows. His chest heaved with his shallow breathing as he swallowed hard, and when he finally opened his eyes, he stared at her with such intensity that it made her catch her breath all over again.

His gaze raked over her features as though he expected her to be injured. ‘ _Silly_ ,’ she thought absently. She wasn’t high enough to hurt herself . . .

Still he didn’t make any move to let her go, and staring up at him, unable to form a coherent word, she couldn’t rightly complain about the situation, either. If he realized exactly what was going on, he didn’t give a clue, and as he stared at her, she could feel the stuttering heat that burgeoned deep inside her. He shook his head slightly, as though he didn’t really understand exactly what was happening, his brow furrowing as his lips slowly parted. Color slowly crept into his skin once more as the unsettling brightness in his gaze shifted into something far headier. Isabelle’s breath caught in her throat as a whisper of cognizant thought infiltrated her mind. ‘ _He . . . he wants to . . . kiss . . . me_ . . .’

She could see it in his eyes, half-closed, as though he was caught in a trance, and maybe he was. She lifted a hand, placed it against his chest, could feel his muscles jerking under her touch. As if the entirety of her existence had led her to this one moment, she couldn’t think of a single reason to fight the emotion that surged through her. The consuming sense of absolute perfection seemed to wrap around her—around the both of them, and in that moment, she knew that he felt it, too. They belonged together; the knowledge more of an unvoiced understanding than any sort of decision, and as he leaned in just a little closer, she couldn’t help the soft little sigh that escaped her as the moisture of his ragged breaths condensed on her lips.

The unwelcome rattle of a plastic bag broke through the idyll that encompassed them. With a start, Griffin jerked back, blinking vacantly as slow understanding dawned on him. The greedy smack of jaws resounded in the quiet as Froofie helped himself to the forgotten bag of pecans lying haphazardly on the floor. He’d obviously already eaten the ones that had fallen out of the bag and was content to forage in the bag for the rest of them.

Griffin let go of her so suddenly that Isabelle had to grab his shoulders to keep from slipping off his lap and onto the floor. He winced and shoved her aside before grasping her wrists and tugging her hands free, but she couldn’t credit the almost sickened look on his face; couldn’t comprehend why he seemed so entirely disgusted. Bracing his weight on a shaking hand that he place on the floor, Griffin pushed himself to his feet and strode out of the room without a word and without looking back. Isabelle sighed, grimacing as his bedroom door slammed closed moments later, and she wrapped her arms around her ankles, burying her face in the cradle of her raised knees.

‘ _Why . . .?_ ’ she asked herself, shaking her head as her hot, dry eyes throbbed, burned. ‘ _Why did he . . . walk away . . .?_ ’

For once her youkai remained conspicuously silent, offering her neither censure nor comfort with only the sound of Froofie’s feast echoing in the quiet.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Jezebel_** _: The wife of Ahab, king of king of Israel. ( **I Kings 16:31, the Bible**.) … She was known for being a wicked, shameless woman_.
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _Jezebel, huh …?_


	15. The Crack in the Wall

_The smoke . . . the smoke . . . forever the smoke that rose around him, choking him, cloying at him, shattered him a million times as it seeped into his pores, clung to his skin, wrung tears from his eyes . . . as he struggled against it, flailing in the darkness, his ears filled with the roaring echo of a thousand cries; the pleas for mercy falling upon him time and again only to be ignored_ . . .

 _The echoes in the night mingled with the resounding crash of collapsing buildings . . . leaving desecration in his wake, and still he was unsure . . . had he done that? Had he summarily rent everything asunder? Torn apart everything in the futile hope that it would offer him a sort of solace that was not to be found_ . . .

 _Stumbling through the haze of smoke as flames licked at his tattered garments, he pressed on as the lingering remnants of_ her _laughter mingled with the sounds of_ her _cries—the pathetic cries that he hadn’t been able to assuage_ . . .

 _Words made no sense in his disjointed thoughts, or maybe they weren’t thoughts at all. At some point, his mind had switched over into a more primal state of being where the only thing that mattered was that he live; that he survive, no matter what the cost. The pounding of his pulse throbbed in his ears, his vision tinged with shades of crimson, lending a hellish glow to the most simplistic of objects_.

 _Bare feet torn and bleeding, the scent of his blood lost in the confusion of a million smells . . . the scarlet stain on his claws lent him a grim satisfaction even as he knew somewhere deep down that he should be horrified—_ completely _horrified . . . and still he smiled_ . . .

 _And still he smiled_ . . .

 _The charred remains of twisted corpses littered his way as he stumbled forward, as he searched for a means to escape the carnage. In the distance, he could hear a voice calling to him over and over and over again. A ragged growl slipped from him as he curled his lips back in a visceral snarl. It was a voice he knew, wasn’t it? But he couldn’t trust it; no, he couldn’t trust it_ . . .

 _The pounding of running feet bearing down upon him; the soft chime of a familiar sound; one that used to be comforting, but this time it echoed in his head, painful and grating, and he backed away as the darkened form emerged through the fog of smoke_. . .

“. . . _Thank kami . . . came as soon as we . . . Come with me_ . . .”

 _He stumbled back, tripping over a faceless woman’s corpse, and he flailed his claws in warning, rolling to his feet despite the pain surging through his body. Crouching in a wary stance, warning the intruder to keep his distance, ignoring the pleading in his gaze even as he masked the emotion in his eyes—pity? Fear? Remorse . . .? “Come . . . We can help you . . . let us see to your wounds_ . . .”

 _Grimacing against the soothing sound of his voice, he shook his head, uttered a vicious growl as he dug his toes into the dirt. Vaulting off the ground, he shot forward, knocking him aside as he broke into a sprint. He couldn’t trust any of them, could he? He couldn’t trust them at all_ . . .

Something cold and wet touched his hand, and Griffin sat up with a smothered gasp as Charlie whined. The dog was stretched out beside the bed—he’d touched Griffin’s hand with his nose. As the familiarity of his bedroom came slowly into focus, he winced, willing away the remnants of the nightmare that clung to him, even after the passage of centuries.

He wasn’t sure why he’d had that dream again . . . it’d been such a long time since the last time it had plagued him. Maybe it was the unsettling emotion that had riddled his mind as he lay trying to sleep. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to do it; not with everything else running through his head.

‘ _Isabelle_ . . .’

Squeezing his eyes closed against his own thoughts that he couldn’t escape, he bit his lip, his fangs sinking deep into the tender flesh as blood pooled in his mouth.

‘ _What the hell was I thinking?_ ’ Griffin berated himself for the millionth time since he’d made his unceremonious departure from the dining room earlier in the evening. The house was silent, dark, and the sky outside the windows were black, inked over with clouds that stubbornly prevented the weak moonlight from dispelling even a trace amount of the pervasive gloom.

Flopping onto his back, he heaved a sigh, rubbing his forehead as he heard himself blink. He couldn’t stand it. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her: the look on her face, the complete surrender . . . she hadn’t fought her feelings in the least; he knew that. When had she ever? No, he was the one who denied how he felt; the one who hid from the very truths of what he wanted most in the world, and why? Because he knew— _knew_ —that some things weren’t ever meant to be his, and Isabelle Izayoi was one of those things.

Her cheeks flushed with a tinge of pinkness—not a blush; more like the heightened color that came with being in a room that was heated a little too much . . . her lips parted as the shattered sound of her shallow breathing echoed in his ears . . . the brightness in her eyes sparkling like the moon on the ocean’s waves . . . everything about her had called out to him. He’d known what she wanted, and for those precious moments, he’d desperately wanted it, too . . .

With another sigh, he sat up again, swinging his legs off the bed before slowly getting to his feet. Charlie shuffled around and got up, too, following Griffin out of the room like an ever-present shadow . . . or maybe a ghost . . .

He’d meant to get a glass of water, so he was more than a little surprised when he realized exactly where he’d ended up. Standing in the doorway of the pitch black room and listening to the steady, even sounds of Isabelle’s slumber, he couldn’t summon the will to be disgusted at his perceived weakness.

The soft glow from the digital clock situated on the nightstand beside the bed gave off precious little light, and yet it was enough to discern the trace outlines of her face, and as though he hadn’t the strength to fight against it, he felt his feet carrying him over to her. He knelt beside her, cocking his head to the side as he stared at her, loathe to touch her but somehow simply being close to her was enough to calm the frayed ends of his emotions.

Curled on her side lost in the tangles of golden-bronze hair, she looked so different from the woman who did her best to drive him insane during her waking hours. She wasn’t really a small woman by any means, and yet in her sleep she seemed so very fragile, so delicate that he had to wonder if she really was the same Isabelle he’d left in the dining room earlier . . .

Breathing light and even, her lips slightly parted, she mumbled something that had no true form as her eyebrows drew together in a little frown. The expression was gone as quickly as it had come, fading away as the trace lines dissipated, as she snuggled a little deeper into the pillow, her face lost in the darkness of shadows. A painful surge shot through him, and he winced, leaning away, gripping his chest and slowly shaking his head.

Of all the things he’d ever mourned, of everything he’d ever thought he’d lost, he’d never felt quite this way before. Sitting in the quiet and watching her sleep yet knowing in the back of his mind that she was little better than a fantasy meant to torment him, Griffin felt the unfamiliar stirrings of something wild and wanton and . . . and bittersweet . . .

He couldn’t place it. He couldn’t rightfully remember having felt that way before, and if he ever had, it had been so long ago—over a lifetime ago—before he’d realized that sometimes people were born not to live, but to die slowly from the moment they drew breath, and that those unfortunate ones were damned to bring nothing but sorrow and destruction to those who tried to touch them, tried to reach them . . . tried to love them . . .

And he was one of them, wasn’t he?

An unfamiliar longing gripped him, the desire to reach out, to touch her, to reassert to himself that she was real, and yet he could not— _would_ not . . . The aura of her youki beckoned him, and he propped his elbow on his knee, biting down on his finger, feeling the barb of his fang sink deep into his flesh, yet the pain was only a minor distraction and not nearly enough to help him elude the invisible lure of her.

Maybe he’d been alone for far too long; maybe he’d forgotten what it was like, to have someone to talk to—to have someone listen to him . . . Her proximity was a dangerous thing, and every single day that passed only served to bring her closer: closer than his own heartbeat . . . closer than the echoes of screams that tainted his very existence.

It should have been bad enough that she was beautiful—more beautiful than he could really credit. She shone like the sun in the summer sky, banishing the shadows that he welcomed with little more than a simple smile.   Even now the sound of her laughter warmed his soul, lent him a quiet sense of strength to bolster the harsher reality of his own weariness. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he could feel the long dormant stirrings of life coursing through him. After such a long time of little more than going through the motions, she’d reminded him that there really were precious things in the world; all he had to do was look for them.

Still he could sense the danger. He knew that there were things that could not be forgotten; vile things that he had no right to ask for forgiveness for the part he played in all of it. The hand of Fate had pointed her finger at him so very long ago, and there was no escaping the inevitable. It was just a matter of time before the first cracks in the proverbial wall shook and crumbled and came tumbling down.

And when that happened, the only thing he could do was to protect Isabelle from it all; from him, from his terrible secrets, from the blasphemy that his life had become.

He stared at her for another long moment, committed the visage to his memory. She was everything he could never have, and best he remembered that . . .

Shuffling out of the bedroom, he quietly pulled the door closed. The broken chair still sat beside the dining table, and he scowled at it—at the splintered leg. A knot in the wood had given way. He’d been careless when selecting the wood for the piece. With a grunt to acknowledge the late worry that she might have really been hurt in the fall, Griffin grabbed the chair and turned toward the basement door. It was a simple enough spindle. He could replace the faulty leg in no time at all.

Yet something else to weigh his conscience . . . he’d been there to catch her, sure, and even now, his shoulder groaned in abject protest of his overexertion. He simply wasn’t used to doing anything that was overly strenuous. His body wouldn’t allow it. He figured it was a small price to pay. He’d paid for his sins, and the price was his blood. He was simply biding his time until the bill came due in full; condemned to walk the earth until such time when that justice found him.

But knowing this wasn’t dissuading his mind from wanting things that he could never have. The sound of Isabelle’s laughter, so freely given . . . the soothing quality of her very presence . . . and the consuming sense of resignation when he knew that the countdown to his ultimate end had already begun to tick away . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“Anyway, he seems nice enough . . . a little quiet, maybe, and a little gruff, but Isabelle really likes him . . .” Jillian said as she snuggled in Gavin’s lap. He was playing a new racing game that Jillian had picked up for him, and she was content to let him so long as he didn’t mind letting her cuddle with him while he did.

“A bear, you say?” Evan Zelig interrupted without taking his eyes off the television. He’d taken time off his current touring schedule to spend Thanksgiving through Christmas at home, so when Gavin had called to tell him that he’d gotten his hands on the latest installment of the Dangerous Curves franchise, he’d rushed right over to spend the evening getting his ass handed to him on the game.

“Is he a big bear?” Madison Cartham, Evan’s constant consort in evil, or so Gavin maintained, asked.

“Yes,” Jillian agreed, rolling her eyes when her brother leaned to the side, hefting the video game controller into the air as though the movement would help him take the corner at full speed on the game.

“Didn’t know there was a bear-youkai around these parts,” Gavin added, a hint of distraction evident in his tone.

Evan groaned as Gavin’s car slid over the finish line. “I swear to God you cheat,” he insisted, setting the controller down and flopping back against the sofa.

Gavin shot him an amused grin. “Nope, I’m just better than you,” he goaded before stooping down to kiss Jillian’s forehead. “You tired, Jilli?”

She shook her head and leaned up to kiss Gavin’s cheek. “No . . . I’ll just take a nap here.”

Evan made a face. “Good God, the two of you are so fucking perfect together, it borders on perverse.”

Gavin grinned, cheeks pinking at Evan’s assessment. “I like perverse.”

Jillian giggled, wrapping a lock of Gavin’s hair around her finger. “I do, too.”

“I want a pretty girl to sit on my lap,” Evan grumbled. “Hey, Maddy . . .”

“Forget it. That lap is reserved for your mate, and I’m certainly _not_ that,” Madison laughed.

“Yeah, but you could just keep it warmed,” he suggested.

Madison dropped the magazine she’d been leafing through onto the sofa cushion beside her and leaned forward to tug on Evan’s hair—tinted golden bronze for the day, most likely in an effort to annoy his father. “I warm your parts often enough. I don’t need to sit on your lap, too.”

“Anyway, Gavvie, unless you’re ready to go to bed, then I’m fine where I am,” Jillian asserted.

Gavin chuckled since he knew first hand that she really didn’t care how long he stayed up. She’d just fall asleep, and he didn’t have a problem carrying her to bed when he was ready to go. It worked well, really. Jillian always had been more of a morning person while he tended to be quite a night owl. She didn’t mind keeping his late hours, and he never minded her particular notions about waking him up bright and early, especially when, more often than not, she woke him up in the most congenial of ways . . .

“So Bitty’s got a new toy, does she?” Evan mused with a soft chuckle. “Poor bastard.”

Jillian crumpled up a candy wrapper that Gavin had dropped on the floor and tossed it at her brother’s head. “Jerk! You be nice.”

“I _am_ being nice,” he argued. “Suppose she’ll bring him with her to Thanksgiving dinner?”

Jillian shrugged. “Don’t know . . . maybe.”

“She won’t if she’s smart,” Gavin stated, shaking his head at the idea of the impending dinner that he wasn’t sure he wanted to attend. It wasn’t that he disliked the Zelig family, but he had to admit that they could be rather daunting, especially when they were all together. “Are Kichiro and Belle flying in?”

Evan shook his head. “Kich said that there were a few things going on and that he wasn’t able to get away this year.”

“That’s not very nice, Gavvie,” Jillian pointed out, pinching Gavin’s arm.

“Nice enough,” he maintained with a shake of his head. “They’d put him to the third degree, especially Gunnar and Bas.”

“Aww, Bubby’s full of hot air,” Evan stated with a loud snort. “He’s harmless.”

“Harmless, huh? Maybe . . . still, having those two in particular breathing down your neck? Thanks, but no thanks,” Gavin maintained.

“I’m sure that he can take care of himself,” Jillian asserted with a wan smile followed in quick succession by a wide yawn.

Gavin opened his mouth to tell her that she’d be more comfortable in bed, but was cut off when his cell phone rang. Leaning back but careful not to drop Jillian, he reached over to grab the device off the coffee table. “Hello?”

“Gavin . . . hi, this is Dr. Avis . . . I tried to reach Jillian, but her cell went straight to voicemail.”

Gavin frowned and glanced at the clock. It was nearly ten o’clock . . . “Is something wrong?” he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral since Jillian wasn’t asleep just yet.

The doctor managed a rather weak chuckle. “Wrong? No . . . I just felt badly because she seemed like she wanted to talk longer the other day when she called.”

His frown deepened at the strained thinness behind the doctor’s words. “Oh, well, uh, just a moment, please . . .” He gently shook her until she opened her eyes and peered up at him. “Jilli? It’s for you.”

“Me? Who is it?”

Offering her a wan smile, Gavin shrugged, hoping that she couldn’t see through the expression. “Dr. Avis. You want me to tell him to call back in the morning?”

“Dr. Avis? Oh, no . . . I can take it,” she replied, holding out her hand for the phone.

He handed it over as Evan scrolled through the start screens, ready to begin the next race. In his preoccupation, he hadn’t noticed that his new brother-in-law had also taken the liberty of choosing a car for him—the worst one in his garage, for that matter. It didn’t really surprise him . . .

“Hello?” Jillian said as Gavin reached for his controller.

“Jillian? Hi . . . I hope I’m not calling too late . . .” Dr. Avis said in an apologetic tone.

“Oh, don’t worry about it! I’m glad you called.”

“Me, too. Sorry about rushing you off the phone the other day . . . I had the feeling there was something you were going to ask me?”

Jillian scooted off Gavin’s lap and got up to retrieve drinks from the kitchen. No sooner was she on her feet than Madison slipped onto Gavin’s abandoned lap. “I’ll keep your place warm for you,” she called behind Jillian.

Jillian laughed. “Okay!”

“M-M-Maddy?” Gavin choked out.

“Hmm, I love the strong, silent type, don’t you?” she purred.

“Hey, Maddy, why don’t you wiggle around a little? Gavvie likes that!” Evan added.

“Shut up, Evan!” Gavin growled.

“Why? Afraid something’s gonna pop up?”

“Shut _up_ , Evan,” he reiterated.

“Why’s your face all red, Gavvie?” Evan asked for good measure.

“Oh, _my_ . . . you really _are_ a big boy, aren’t you?” Madison teased.

Gavin choked again.

“Well, sure . . . Jilli likes ‘em big boys, you know,” Evan stated.

“Hurry up, Jilli,” Gavin hollered as Jillian hurried into the kitchen.

“It wasn’t important,” she replied, shaking her head when a plaintive groan followed by a triumphant whoop erupted behind her. Gavin insisted that Evan was cheating while Evan just laughed.

“Important enough that you wanted to say it,” Dr. Avis chided.

Catching the phone between her shoulder and ear, Jillian pulled four glasses out of the cupboard and grabbed an ice tray out of the freezer. “It wasn’t important,” she insisted again. “I just wondered . . . I mean, you worked in the lab with my father and uncle, didn’t you?”

Dr. Avis paused for a moment before answering. “Yeah, I did . . .”

“Did they . . . did they get along well?”

“Uh . . . your uncle and father? Yeah, of course they did . . . why?”

She couldn’t help the bashful grin that twitched on her lips as she set the empty ice tray aside and pulled two Sprites and a couple Diet Cokes out of the refrigerator. “It’s silly . . . I couldn’t help but wonder about that, but I’m glad.”

“Of course,” he allowed a little tersely. “You . . . you managed to get the bio-chip removed, correct?”

Jillian bit her lip and glanced back toward the living room. Gavin had warned her against saying anything that pertained to the research to Dr. Avis, citing that it was possible that he still had hopes of getting his hands on the project despite his assertions that he didn’t have any such ideas. ‘ _But it’s not as though he’s asking about the research, really; just the chip_ . . .’

‘ _I don’t know, Jilli . . . you promised Gavin that you wouldn’t say anything to Dr. Avis about it, and the bio-chip does have a loose association with it, you know_ . . .’ her youkai voice pointed out.

‘ _Still_ ,’ she argued, shaking her head slowly. “Why yes, I did. It was a simple procedure, really,” she said in a bright tone that should have ended the line of questioning.

“Good . . . I have to admit, I was a little worried about that.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes there are complications in the removal of such things,” he remarked. “I’m glad that there weren’t in your case.”

“Complications?”

“Sure.”

“Like . . . what?”

“Well, it’s rare, but there have been incidents where the bio chip had been in place long enough that it had assimilated with the host, in effect making the chip, itself, a viable organ that the body has adapted to; one that is viewed as necessary by the host tissue.”

She couldn’t help the vague worry that gripped her. She felt fine, true enough, but she didn’t like the sound of the ‘rare’ reaction that the good doctor had so eloquently spelled out for her. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine—just fine,” she insisted.

Dr. Avis fell silent. In the background, she could hear the television. It added a sense of normalcy to the conversation, and that, in turn, comforted her. “I’m glad to hear it,” he assured her. “I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“No, it’s fine,” she said, smiling at the ridiculousness of her own thoughts. “My uncle did the extraction, and he’s the best there is.”

“Ah, the renowned Kichiro Izayoi?”

“You’ve heard of him.” It was a statement; not a question.

“Yes, of course. I doubt there are many youkai who haven’t heard of him. He’d be very capable of completing the research, so I’m sure it’s in good hands.”

She smiled. “Oh, he would be,” she agreed easily enough, rinsing the empty soda cans and turning them upside down in the sink.

There was a slight pause on the line before Dr. Avis spoke again. “Anyway, I’m glad you had a safe trip back to the States. I’m sorry I missed your last few visits.”

“You’re feeling better now, aren’t you?”

“Certainly, certainly . . . right as rain.”

“Good!”

Dr. Avis sighed. “Ah, but your mate said that it was rather late there. I’m sorry for disturbing you . . . I forgot about the time difference, I suppose . . .”

“Oh, no, it’s fine! I’m glad you called.”

“I’ll let you go. If there’s anything else you want to know, feel free to call.”

She laughed softly. “Okay.”

“Good night, Jillian.”

“Night.”

The line went dead, and Jillian clicked the phone off before carefully picking up the glasses and heading back toward the living room. She knew that Gavin still didn’t completely trust Dr. Avis, and sure, she could understand why. Still, he’d been so kind; so helpful in giving her information about her biological parents, and he was the last real tie she had with the past, and it wasn’t like he was asking her questions about the research, not really. All in all, she could trust him; she knew she could, especially when Gavin was always there by her side.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle bit her lip and peered over the top of the notebook. She’d been trying to comb through the translated journal to gather as much information as she could, but her mind just wasn’t on the task. ‘ _No_ . . .’ she thought slowly, shaking her head as she stifled a sigh. Her mind was on something completely different—or some _one_ , if she were completely honest with herself . . .

Griffin’s empty desk chair sat undisturbed. She hadn’t even as much as seen him all day though she could sense him nearby which could only mean that he’d been holed up in his basement, likely trying to avoid having to deal with her, she supposed.

Still, she couldn’t quite regret the moment that had passed between them. Too much had been said without a word to be ignored, and to be honest, it was something that she had desperately needed. To know that he wasn’t as immune to her as he would like to have her believe . . . it was a simple reassurance that maybe her intuition was based on something more than just what she wanted to think . . .

The look in his gaze, the absolute draw of his youki on hers . . . and she knew that Griffin was simply not the type to let himself go on a whim. No, if he’d come that close to kissing her, then there was more to his feelings that what met the eye. ‘ _He feels it, too . . . he knows, just like I do_ . . .’

That thought brought a smile to her lips, and while she didn’t believe for a moment that the road that lay ahead would be easy, she also believed completely, unerringly, that Griffin would be worth the effort.

‘ _Too bad he’s insisting on hiding himself away in the basement all day_ ,’ she thought as she wrinkled her nose.

‘ _Yes, well, take it to heart, Isabelle. When he does show his face, don’t tease him. That’ll just make it worse, you know_.’

Sound advice, that, she had to allow however grudgingly. Trouble was she hated playing games. Too bad Griffin always thought her direct attitude was just that when in actuality, it was her way of telling him exactly what she wanted.

She’d get to him eventually. She’d make him understand that they belonged together. It was just a matter of time . . .

Just the memory of being held in Griffin’s arms was enough to send a delicious little tremor up her spine. He’d felt so safe, so strong, and all she’d wanted was to crawl into him so that she could feel that way forever. Running the tip of her claw over her lips, she sighed softly. Sure, she’d dated men she’d consider excellent kissers, and maybe Griffin hadn’t really done any such thing before, but she couldn’t help the deep seated knowledge that Griffin’s kisses . . . they’d be special. They’d be _different_ . . .

The rattle of the basement door drew Isabelle out of her reverie, and she blinked to dispel the lingering fantasy as the comforting lines of the living room came into focus once more. Glancing over in time to see Griffin dragging a chair behind him, she sat up, crossing her arms atop the back of the sofa, content to watch as he set the chair aside and stepped back for Froofie to emerge from the basement behind him. Then he closed the door, locking it fast—she didn’t figure he’d let something like that slip—and picked up the chair to replace it at the table as Isabelle’s grin widened.

“So that’s where you’ve been all day,” she mused quietly. “I was starting to think you’d taken up residence down there.”

“Thought about it,” he grunted, grasping the back of the chair and leaning on it, wiggling it from side to side to test his handiwork.

“You fixed it?” she asked. For some reason, it didn’t really surprise her, though perhaps it should have. With as much trouble as he tended to have with his hands, that he could imitate the size and design of the chair’s legs was remarkable, really. “Nice . . . the stain even matches.”

“‘Course it does,” he grumbled without so much as glancing at her. “Now do me a favor and keep your fat ass off my chairs. I don’t feel like replacing any more of them.”

“Where did you get that set?” she questioned suddenly, sitting up a little straighter as inspiration hit her.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, his expression inscrutable. “Why?”

She shrugged. “My mother would love it,” she commented. “She’s always saying how things aren’t made the way they used to be . . .”

“It was handcrafted,” he admitted, pushing the chair into place under the table.

“Oh? But who made it? I mean, I’d pay him to make a set for Mama . . .”

Griffin snorted and shuffled over to retrieve the mail off the small stand where Isabelle had left it. “He doesn’t make them anymore.”

Isabelle heaved a sigh, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “That’s too bad,” she murmured. Staring at the solid dinette set, she couldn’t help but look a little wistful. Though simple in design, she’d always admired the pieces. The only real embellishment on them was the intricate carvings in the backs of each chair, and while each one was different, the imagery all melded together to create a sort of scene: different kinds of wildlife visiting the same lake. Whoever had crafted the set really had taken great pains to make them as functional yet beautiful as possible. It was a skill that Isabelle, with her mind that tended to think in terms of form and reason, could truly appreciate since she, herself, would never be able to create something like that.

“. . . It’s just furniture,” he mumbled.

“Maybe,” she agreed easily enough, shifting on the sofa so she could pull her feet up and lock her hands around her ankles. “I don’t know . . . it’s just something that Mama would’ve loved.”

“Sure.”

“Anyway . . . I think you’ve claimed my dog,” Isabelle commented with a rueful smile.

“No wonder. I’d abandon you, too, if you’d given me such a ridiculous name.”

She blinked. “Why? What’s wrong with Froofie?”

His snort stated quite plainly that she should have been able to figure that out by herself.

Isabelle giggled. “Be that as it may, Froofie likes his name.”

“It’s Charlie, and he doesn’t.”

“Sure, sure . . . don’t suppose I could talk you into coming to my grandparents’ house for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Don’t suppose you could,” he said.

“But you can’t spend the holiday alone,” she chided.

“It’s just another day,” he maintained.

“That’s not true; it’s a special day. Holidays are _always_ special days.”

“You’re Japanese. Thanksgiving isn’t even one of your holidays, you know.”

“I’m half-American,” she argued, “so it’s _half_ my holiday. Anyway, Grandma always makes tons of food. She’d love to have you over, I’m sure of it.”

He shook his head stubbornly and shot her a look that told her very loudly that the subject was closed as far as he was concerned. “It’s not a big deal,” he mumbled, heading toward the kitchen to throw away the junk mail.

She watched him go with a frown. The idea of Griffin spending holidays alone bothered her much more than she wanted to admit. How depressing must it be; sitting down to a regular dinner that he could have had any other night of the week with nothing to mark the day as extraordinary? Did he bother to decorate his home for Christmas? Did he ever celebrate anything? Somehow she didn’t think he did, and that thought more than anything made her want to cry.

Maybe it was the barrage of memories of her own holiday celebrations that made her sad. How many times had she opened her eyes on Christmas morning only to jump out of bed to tackle her still sleeping mother and father without so much as a second thought that maybe they’d been up well into the night putting together the Barbie Dream House she’d begged for or the baby carriage she just had to have? How many times had they gathered around the extended table in the Izayoi family’s home—InuYasha and Kagome’s house, or even in the Inutaisho home? Failing that, how many times had Isabelle and her sisters happily boarded planes to travel across the ocean to spend the holidays with the Zeligs? Those memories were always surrounded with laughter, with love, and Griffin . . . She frowned, blinking away the rising moisture that clouded her gaze . . .

Griffin should have those kinds of memories, too . . .

Biting her lip, she inclined her head to listen for tell-tale signs of what Griffin was doing. She could hear him rummaging through the refrigerator and figured he was probably making himself a salad. Digging her cell phone out of her pocket, she hit the fifth number on her speed dial and waited.

“Hello?” Gin Zelig’s warm voice came over the line.

“Hi, Grandma . . . It’s Bitty.”

Gin laughed. “Is everything okay? You sound a little troubled.”

“No, I’m fine. I just called to let you know that I can’t make it for Thanksgiving dinner, after all . . .”

Gin clucked her tongue, her disappointment registering in the sound, and she sighed. “Oh, really? That’s too bad! We’ll really miss you . . . Do you have to work?”

“Something like that,” Isabelle said, tamping down the guilt that accompanied the little white lie she was telling. “Yeah . . .”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
> … _Holidays_ …


	16. Caving In

Isabelle scraped the plate off into the dog’s dish and spared a moment to rub Froofie’s knobby head before heaving a sigh as she stood up and turned toward the sink once more. She’d eaten way too much—a definite disadvantage of the holidays and one that she never could quite resist. Though the turkey—her first attempt, ever—was a little dry, it wasn’t horrible, and Griffin had actually seemed to enjoy the dinner despite his assertions to the contrary.

During the morning as she was readying the turkey and re-reading instructions, she’d felt a few pangs of regret for having blown her family off. Still the idea of spending the day with Griffin was nicer than she could credit, and in the end, she hadn’t regretted her decision to stay with him. Even then, she had to be at the hospital at midnight for her shift, and she’d always hated the idea of eating then running, which was what she’d have had to do if she’d gone to the family gathering in Bevelle. At least this way she could spend the afternoon drowsing on the sofa, and that idea was becoming more and more appealing as the minutes ticked away.

Griffin shuffled into the kitchen with the half-empty bowl of chestnut dressing and the remnants of a pecan pie. The way he kept looking at the pie, she had to wonder if he weren’t irritated that he couldn’t eat more of it. Still, she restrained the urge to smile as she washed the dishes and set them in the sink of steaming rinse water. He stomped out of the kitchen again, and Isabelle shook her head. She’d told him that he didn’t have to help, but he’d just grunted and started to clear the table.

When he lumbered back into the room, she couldn’t help but laugh when he taped a note on the top of the plastic he’d used to cover the pie: ‘ _GRIFFIN_ ’, it said in very large, bold lettering. “So I can’t have any of that?” she asked, batting her eyes as she peered over her shoulder at him.

“Stay out of my pie,” he grumbled as he stowed the rest of it in the refrigerator.

She laughed and blew a handful of bubbles at him in retaliation.

“Keep your bubbles to yourself, Jezebel,” he muttered, turning on his heel and stalking out of the kitchen once more.

He’d mentioned something about working on the translation of the actual research, but it seemed to be giving him a little more trouble than the journal had, probably because he was dealing with more technical jargon that probably didn’t translate very well. Still he seemed to be doing much better than she’d thought he would—so well, in fact, that he was already a good twenty-five or thirty pages into the notes.

In fact, he’d been working on the translations when she’d shuffled out of her bedroom at four in the morning to put the turkey into the oven. He’d peered at her over the thick rim of his glasses with a strange sort of expression just before he asked her if she was lost. His curiosity had gotten the better of him, though, and he’d poked his head into the kitchen while she was trying to cram as much stuffing into the ass end of the turkey as she could.

She’d had every intention of going back to bed. In the end, though, she’d sat down on the sofa to read over some of Griffin’s translation notes, and it struck her that he really was tired—almost as tired as she was—and yet he refused to go to bed, himself.

So she’d stayed up with him, unsure why she felt compelled to do so when he so obviously didn’t care whether or not she did. She had a feeling that it wasn’t that he _wouldn’t_ go to bed, but more than he _couldn’t_. The hints had been there all along, hadn’t they? How often had she seen him grimace as he stood up and walked stiffly across the floor—pacing back and forth as he gritted his teeth but didn’t say a word? She’d spotted him coming back from his walks in the woods, leaning heavily on the smooth wood cane that she’d seen propped in the umbrella stand beside the back door, his face a little pale and drawn . . .

It had struck her, too, that she’d never, ever seen Griffin with anything other than a long sleeved shirt, even at the end of the summer, and she realized with a wince that if he had scars that deep on his hands and on his face, there was a good chance that he had them on the rest of his body, as well. ‘ _But . . . how could he have gotten them . . .?_ ’

With a sigh, Isabelle let the water out of the sinks and wiped the counter with a damp sponge. All she wanted to do was help him, but Griffin just wasn’t the kind to accept that help, let alone acknowledge that there might be a problem, to start with. Not for the first time, she wished that there was a way for her to find out some of those things about him. She knew well enough that he was much too stubborn to let go of any of his secrets, and she doubted that there was another soul who could help her shed light on the situation.

Her grandmother had told her stories before; stories of the miko named Kikyou who had been her grandfather’s first love. She’d died in what she’d thought was an act of the lowest sort of treachery when Naraku had disguised himself as InuYasha and had cut her down on the very morning that they were to meet so that InuYasha could use the Shikon no Tama to become full human in order to be with Kikyou. The anger and the guilt that InuYasha had carried around for so very long after he’d been revived from Goshinboku had nearly been his undoing. Was Griffin carrying around a weight like that? Somehow, Isabelle knew that whatever it was weighing on his heart, he certainly wasn’t going to give it up without a fight.

Then, too, was Grandpa Cain, who had blamed himself for his first wife’s death. She’d died giving birth to Isabelle’s mother, and Cain had lived for years with the unstated desire to die for his perceived sins. He’d told her once that all it had taken was the love of a very good woman—the woman who Isabelle called ‘grandma’ now. She’d made him understand that no one had ever blamed him other than himself. Gin had made Cain realize that he couldn’t change the past by hurting the one person who had relied on him for years: Isabelle’s mother, Bellaniece.

To her knowledge, though, Griffin didn’t have any family; hadn’t ever had any real family, and he certainly hadn’t had a mate because even though Cain had lived through losing his first wife, he had also admitted, albeit sadly, that Isabelle Kroft Zelig never had been the recognized mate of his youkai blood. He’d lost his parents early on, and he’d never been one to talk about that. In that sense, Cain was a lot like Griffin, she supposed. Both preferred to leave the past lie instead of stirring it up with a sharpened stick.

But the mystery of Griffin wasn’t nearly as daunting to her as she supposed that it should have been. Even if he could be stubborn, she could, too, and she’d already set her mind to helping him, regardless of whether or not he wanted it. He’d thank her for it one day. She was positive he would.

The fleeting memory of being held in his arms, of staring into his face and seeing the raw emotion that he tried so hard to hide from her . . . That was enough to bolster her resolve. He knew as well as she did that they really were meant to be together. ‘ _All he has to do is admit it to himself_ ,’ she thought as a small smile turned up the corners of her lips. ‘ _If he can do that, I’ll do the rest_ . . .’

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

The chair slid back with a jarring scrape as Griffin pushed himself to his feet with a sigh. He’d sat at the desk far longer than he should have, unsure why he felt the strange sense of urgency whenever he looked at or thought about the research.

Maybe it was the unsettling sense of his impending doom that had set in shortly after the incident the other night. Maybe it was the foreign undercurrent that had been thick in the atmosphere whenever Isabelle was in the same room as he was. He couldn’t help but think that he was living on borrowed time, one way or the other, and that was likely the reason that he felt such a need to hurry.

In any case it was late. The clock had struck two long ago. Even as he thought about that, the clock chimed the hour, and he rubbed his neck, letting his head fall back as he closed his eyes and sighed. He was bone-weary, and yet he was loath to lie down, too. Even if he managed to fall asleep, he couldn’t help the nagging worry that the nightmares would come again. They were just too much, weren’t they? The dreams . . . the smoke . . . the blood . . .

The house felt so empty. He’d noticed that happening more frequently whenever Isabelle went to work. As though she were the singular bright spot in his existence, he couldn’t help the nagging suspicion that he was growing just a little too dependent on her presence.

The trill of the telephone cut through the brooding silence that had fallen over the house, and he jumped. He’d almost forgotten what the sound was, and it took him a moment to place it. Scowl darkening as he strode over to grab it, the first thought that crossed his mind was that Isabelle was in trouble. Why he thought it, he wasn’t certain. He simply wasn’t used to receiving phone calls, especially ones in the middle of the night. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good, he reasoned, and the only thing that could possibly be important enough to disturb someone at this hour was something bad; he just knew it. By the time he managed to push the ‘talk’ button, his hands were shaking so badly that he nearly dropped the receiver. “Isabelle?” he blurted.

“Isabelle? No . . . Sorry for calling so late,” Attean Masta’s voice came over the line. “Didn’t figure you’d be sleeping, though. You have a moment or you are expecting a call from this . . . Isabelle?”

Tamping down the late irritation that flared in him, Griffin heaved a sigh, rubbing his face with his still trembling fingers. “Attean . . . wh—Never mind that. Why are you making phone calls in the middle of the night?”

“Did you find out anything else about Eaton Fellows?” Attean asked without preamble, ignoring Griffin’s blustering with a question of his own.

Griffin rubbed his temple. “Just what I told you,” he mumbled. “Did you?”

Attean sighed. “Not so much, no,” he allowed. “I’m starting to think that it was just an alias he used at the time.”

“I don’t know,” Griffin asserted. “The way they talked about him made him sound concrete enough.”

“I see . . . Tell me, why is this man so important to you?”

“He just is.”

“Yes, you said he posed a potential threat to someone close to you?”

“I didn’t,” Griffin scoffed, cheeks pinking at the implication of Attean’s words.

“Close enough,” Attean said. “It would help if I had an idea of what sort of threat he posed, wouldn’t you say?”

Griffin sighed and shook his head, unsure whether he really ought to be talking to Attean about any of this, in the first place, but seeing no other options. “There’s reason to believe that he had something to do with a murder—maybe two of them—around that time . . . twenty-five years ago, give or take. Two medical researchers: one that I’m positive Fellowes killed; the other just seems to have vanished shortly afterward.”

“Sounds intriguing.”

“Not so much.”

Attean chuckled. “Some things never change, do they?”

“Maybe not.”

He could hear the creak of an office chair and figured that Attean was sitting back, crossing his ankles on the top of the desk. It was a pose that Griffin had seen often enough over the years . . . “Kennedy Carradine and his brother, Carl.”

“Medical researchers, you say.”

“Yes.”

“Zelig did nothing in this case?”

Griffin grunted, shuffling toward the kitchen to forage for a snack. “No, but I don’t think he knew about it, in the first place.”

“Hmm . . . That gives me a little bit more to go on, though I have to say, you certainly know how to pick your favors, don’t you?”

“Yeah, sure . . .”

“Can I ask you? Who is it you’re trying to protect, Griffin?”

Attean’s question caught Griffin off-guard. He wasn’t sure why it was so. After all, it was the logical thing to ask, and yet he couldn’t help the gut-wrenching feeling that he’d be giving away far too much of himself to answer, even if Attean had never judged him. “It’s not like that,” he mumbled as he opened a cupboard and glowered at the ceramic Winnie the Pooh honey pot that Isabelle had bought a few days ago. The image of her smiling face flashed through his mind, and Griffin blinked quickly to dispel the image.

“It is this ‘Isabelle’, isn’t it?”

Sometimes Griffin really had to wonder if Attean weren’t part bloodhound. He was too damn good at putting two and two together—something that made him a fine private investigator . . . something that had always irritated the hell out of Griffin . . . “It’s not what you think,” he muttered defensively. “I’m just translating the research; that’s all.”

“The research?” Attean echoed. “What research?”

Griffin grimaced, raking his hand through his hair as he berated himself for the thoughtless slip. “Nothing. Nothing important. Just something that I’m helping with.”

“And this Isabelle . . . she asked you to translate something . . . this research . . .?”

“Not important,” Griffin maintained. “I just need to know anything you can find out about Eaton Fellowes, all right?”

“Of course,” Attean allowed though he sounded like he was still thinking about Griffin’s slip. “I’ll see what else I can come up with.”

Griffin grunted in acknowledgement and clicked off the telephone.

It wasn’t the first time that Attean had figured things out on his own; things that Griffin wanted to keep to himself. He’d done it before, a long time ago, and while Griffin had never actually confirmed Attean’s suspicions, he really didn’t have to.

But Attean Masta only knew part of the story. There really wasn’t a single soul who knew all of it; just Griffin, and that’s how it should be. What could anyone say after all? Either they would condemn him on the spot or they would try to understand, and in Griffin’s estimation, that possibility was infinitely worse. He’d given up trying to make excuses long ago because they were simply that: excuses, and it didn’t matter how many of those he made, there really was no way he could ever ask for forgiveness for the things he had done.

Gazing out the window over the sink at the vast blackness of the night outside, Griffin sighed. In the distance, he could hear the plaintive moan of a ship’s foghorn as a thin beacon of light split the dark in a cadence. The beam seemed like a ray of hope, as corny as the idea sounded in his own head. Still that’s what it was, wasn’t it? A light to guide the weary to rest . . .

His expression darkened as his thoughts shifted to Attean’s phone call. While he’d been irritated enough at the time, he had to wonder just how much Attean had discerned that he would wait until such a late hour to get a hold of him. It was quite possible that he’d realized that Griffin might not be free to talk at other times. Then again, Attean wasn’t exactly known for keeping normal hours, either, so he could have just called on a whim since he’d known that Griffin rarely slept, and never for very long stretches of time.

But if Attean wasn’t able to trace Eaton Fellowes, Griffin wasn’t sure that anyone could. Attean had an innate ability to ferret out information that others might overlook or just plain ignore, and he’d made solid connections over the years—connections that had come in handy time and again. After all, it was Attean’s connections that made it possible for Griffin to have the life that he lived now. In the age where artificial intelligence was far too easy to come by, in a world where the powers-that-be recognized you only by the number on your social security card, it was a daunting task to bury a past best left forgotten. As one woman had so blithely put it when Griffin was looking into registering for college years ago, “ _If you don’t have a social security number, you just plain don’t exist!_ ” She’d been joking, of course, and yet there was a very real truth behind her words.

That was all water under the bridge, so far as Griffin was concerned. The point was that Attean was damn near a genius when it came to things of the subversive nature, and if the genius couldn’t find the mouse in the maze, then who else could?

‘ _Relax, Griffin . . . you’ve said it yourself. Attean is the best. He won’t let you down. He never has before—at least the few times you’ve humbled yourself to ask for his help, that is_.’

The words seemed reassuring enough. Still the feeling that he was doing little more than playing a dangerous game of hide and seek bothered him so much more than he ever wanted to let on. Call it intuition or just plain distrust, but for reasons that he didn’t quite grasp, he felt like there was something or someone lurking out there just beyond the range of the shadows; an unseen force that had yet to reveal any of the cards in his hand . . .

His expression hardened as he continued to stare out the window; eyes glowing with a steely resolve as he clenched his hands into tight fists. If the ultimate target was the research, then Isabelle would be little more than an obstacle to take out of play, and Griffin . . . well, he’d be damned before he’d allow anyone to hurt her. He’d known it for a long time, but it was clearer to him now than it ever had been before. He was expendable, wasn’t he? Isabelle . . .

She was not.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“No.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes and tugged Griffin’s hand closer as she worked the cream into his scars despite his efforts to pull away. “Oh, come on, Dr. G! When’s the last time you got out of the house?”

Peering over at her, a foreboding darkness writ in his eyes, he slowly shook his head. “I get out of the house all the time, fat ass. The answer is ‘no’. Get used to it.”

Clucking her tongue, she shook her head and finally let go of his hand. “I’ll buy you a bag of honey roasted pecans?” she offered.

“You’d do that anyway,” he asserted, scowl deepening into what might have been meant as a menacing expression. Too bad Isabelle knew that the man was all bluster . . .

“Oh, come on! If you make me go alone, you’ll be sorry.”

His snort was loud and decisive. “As if I’m not sorry on a regular basis.”

Isabelle tried another tactic since the current one was obviously not working. “All right, fine. You’ll just have to live with the decorations I pick out then, won’t you?”

Leveling a menacing look at her that she summarily ignored, Griffin shook his head and sighed. “I’ve told you, haven’t I? I don’t decorate for Christmas. Ever.”

“Yeah, well, I do, and since you decided that I’m going to live here for the duration, then you’re going to this year, like it or not.”

“It’s my house,” he pointed out, quirking an eyebrow as he pinned her with a rather bored stare.

“I know . . .”

He frowned at the fleeting glimpse of deep thought that flitted over Isabelle’s features. “What?” he asked slowly, grudgingly.

“You teach a Sunday school, right?”

He snorted. Isabelle normally slept in on rare Sunday when she wasn’t working, so she’d never actually seen the children he taught but she knew that he did. He’d said as much a few weeks ago when she’d held up a little pink mitten with a quizzical glance at the big guy.

“So?”

“So? Don’t your children ask why you never have a Christmas tree?”

He snorted again, opting to ignore the question as he reached for the research notes only to be thwarted when Isabelle planted her hand dead center on the binder.

“Christmas is for children, isn’t it?” she went on, taken by this new inspiration. “Since you spend so much time with children and even invite them into your home, you should have a Christmas tree, don’t you think? Come on, Griffin . . . if you _really_ love the children . . .”

He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest as he shot her an ‘end-of-subject’ glower. “There is no way on earth that you’re ever going to convince me to _willingly_ go into a department store on the day after Thanksgiving,” he reiterated. “That would just be stupid.”

“Oh, it’ll be fun!” she assured him, waving her hand in a complete dismissal of Griffin’s assertions.

“You seriously need to re-evaluate your idea of ‘fun’,” he grumbled.

She wrinkled her nose, telegraphing him her most winning of smiles. “We can make an afternoon of it: shopping . . . finding the perfect tree . . . decorating it tonight after you’ve built a roaring fire . . .”

He actually looked like he might be considering it. Well, that was probably pushing it. At least he didn’t look like he was going to snap her head off . . .

“Hear me out, okay?” she rushed on when he started to shake his head. “We can buy more ‘natural-looking’ decorations, if you want, and I found a new recipe for molasses-pecan cookies that I’d be willing to test out . . . we can make cocoa and decorate the tree . . . of course, you’d have to put the angel on top since you’re so much taller than me, and face it: I just might bust another chair if you put up a fuss over that . . .”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” he grumbled, narrowing his eyes on her, “and it’s not working.”

“. . . Not at all?”

“No.”

She heaved a sigh and clasped her hands together, twirling around in a circle before turning an imploring gaze on him. “Please, Griffin? Please?”

He blinked and snorted as she batted her eyelashes at him. “Will it shut you up?” he finally demanded, rolling his eyes heavenward as though she were sorely trying what was left of his patience.

She nodded, lips drawing back as the flash of her smile rewarded him.

He narrowed his eyes. “Somehow I _highly_ doubt that.”

“Don’t be such a pooh!” she insisted then giggled as Griffin’s face reddened. “A pooh . . . did you get it?”

He rolled his eyes again. “Yeah, I got it,” he growled, irritated that he simply couldn’t keep the redness out of his features. “Really not funny . . .”

“First we’ll need to stop by the store and buy lights and ornaments . . .” she mused, turning her back on him as she started ticking off her list on her fingers. “Lots of lights and lots of ornaments . . . How many do you suppose we’ll need for outside?”

“None,” Griffin grumbled, shaking his head in complete disgust.

“Now, now, there has to be lights outside . . . and maybe one of those perfectly awful inflatable Santas . . . tacky, of course, but the children love them . . .”

“No tacky Santa,” he stated.

She led the way into the foyer, leaning on the stand near the door as she slipped on her shoes. “And . . . Oh! Those plastic candy canes that light up! Those are really bad, too—almost as bad as the Santa, but I don’t know . . . I rather like them for some reason . . .”

“Because you’re mental, and no, no plastic _anything_ in my yard.”

“How much do you think it’d cost to get one of those PA systems? Then we could play Christmas carols for the whole neighborhood.”

He paused with his arm stuck halfway into the sleeve of his oversized coat. “And have them over here beating on my door because they want to kill me . . . absolutely not.”

“Do you think an illuminated nativity would be too much?”

Griffin snorted. “Yes.”

“Yeah, you’re right . . . what about those sleighs with the reindeer that you put on the roof?”

“I am _not_ getting on the roof for a stupid sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.”

She pulled her hood up and stopped to smile at him. “You know the song?” she teased. “Will you sing it to me?”

“Just get moving before I change my mind,” he grumped, skin pinking up yet again in light of her incessant chatter.

Isabelle’s laughter echoed in the house long after he’d pulled the door closed behind them.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Gotta tell ya … when you’re stuffing the bird at four in the morning while everyone else is sleeping, you’re absolutely thinking in terms of the bird’s ass end_ …
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _I love Christmas!_


	17. Little Victories

Griffin scowled up at the tree, asking himself for the millionth time just how she’d managed to talk him into the debacle that was fast taking over his living room.

It wasn’t bad enough that she’d wanted to decorate the tree in all things red and gold. He hadn’t figured out at the time that she had a method to her madness, but he did now. Oh, yes, he did . . .

It wasn’t bad enough that the store was disgustingly crowded—almost crowded enough to send him into a complete and total meltdown—he’d never done well with crowds.

It wasn’t bad enough that Isabelle had seemed to draw off the energy of so many people gathered into one place to do one thing and one thing only: to drive him absolutely mad, and it had very nearly worked . . .

It wasn’t bad enough that, because of his stature, perfect strangers had felt no qualms in asking him to retrieve items off the top shelves, “ _Would you please; thank you very much; it must be wonderful to be so tall; oh, and by the way, your wife is lovely, just lovely_ . . .” The wife part had made him blush crimson every time he’d heard it, which only made Isabelle throw her head back and laugh . . . It just figured.

It wasn’t bad enough that for every kind word he’d heard, he’d also received at least ten of _those_ looks: the revulsion, the horror, the morbid curiosity . . . It was all there, wasn’t it? In the eyes of the people who hadn’t had the courtesy to realize that they were staring— _gawking_ —at him. After all these years of having that particular reaction to the way he looked, why was it that it could still unsettle him?

It wasn’t bad enough that by the time he’d finally managed to talk Isabelle into leaving the store—and much to the detriment of his poor, battered check card—he’d bought almost everything that he’d summarily told Isabelle that there was no way he was ever putting in his yard, and add to that the idea that he’d had to stand in line for nearly an hour as they tried to get out alive, he hadn’t been in the best of moods when they’d finally stepped outside only to be accosted by the bell-ringers who had plucked him clean faster than a vulture on a coyote in the Mojave Desert.

It wasn’t even bad enough that Isabelle had then decided to drag Griffin out into the forest behind the house to find what she called ‘the perfect tree’. It had struck him at the time that it was completely senseless to cut down a tree for the sole intent and purpose of having it emasculated with garland and lights and whatever else Isabelle had tossed into the cart that she’d carefully maneuvered through the department store. It never sat well with him, the idea of destroying nature just because one could. It was one thing to cut down a tree because someone needed the wood for something; it was another thing entirely to do the same just to have it dying in one’s living room. The only times he ever did such a thing was when the trees were too dense to flourish, when he needed the lumber for furniture since he tended to scavenge the fallen ones for firewood. Even the idea of planting a couple to replace it did little to alleviate the nearly overwhelming feeling that he’d wronged nature in the worst way . . .

No, none of that even began to measure up to the worst thing—the gravest of trespasses—in Griffin’s mind. He hadn’t been paying enough attention in the store, he supposed, because he hadn’t realized at the time, just what she’d picked out to put on the tree, and now that he did . . . well, he wasn’t impressed; not in the least, and he opened his mouth to tell Isabelle just that but stopped instead, watching as she carefully hung three stockings from burnished pewter hooks she’d bought especially for the task. When he was fighting with the uncooperative strings of lights, she’d busied herself by writing their names on the stockings with a tube of lurid red glitter fabric paint, and as she hung the stockings, he could only watch as she carefully, almost lovingly, arranged them before moving on to hang the next one: Griffin, Isabelle, and Froofie in the middle.

But it was the gentle smile on her face that stopped his burgeoning tirade . . . she really was enjoying the simple task of decorating for the holiday, and even the sight of the Winnie the Pooh topper didn’t bother him quite as much as it had when she’d asked him sweetly to put it on top of the tree.

As though she sensed his perusal, she turned that smile on him, and for a breathless moment, Griffin couldn’t do more than stare before her gaze moved up, away from him, settling on the insipid grin on the stuffed bear’s face. Holding onto a bright green ‘hunny’ pot, hand poised just above it with a silicone substance colored to look like the ‘hunny’ dripping from his fat little paw, the bear looked entirely daft, in Griffin’s considered opinion.

Isabelle laughed and leaned on Griffin’s arm without taking her gaze off the ten-foot tree that she’d managed to talk him into putting where his recliner normally sat. He still wasn’t sure how she’d talked him into that . . . temporary insanity, maybe . . . it had to be.

“Oh, that’s so cute!” she gushed, tightening her grip on Griffin’s arm. “Will you plug it in?”

Griffin stared at her hands for a moment then grunted. “It looks like the tree got shoved up his ass,” he muttered but did as she asked, narrowing his gaze when the lights on the tree blazed to life.

Isabelle’s laughter escalated seconds before she latched onto his arm again to drag him out of the room. “Come on, Pooh Bear,” she insisted.

He offered token resistance that she summarily ignored. “Why are you manhandling me now?” he demanded though his tone lacked the normal censure that it normally held.

“I want to get the full effect,” she insisted, leaning on his arm as she slipped her feet into the boots she had left by the door.

“Are you sure those are yours?” he deadpanned, tilting his head to the side as he made a show of staring at her boots.

“Yes, why?”

“Because they’re huge,” he commented. “I thought women were supposed to have delicate feet.”

She wrinkled her nose, her cheeks pinking in an uncharacteristic show of embarrassment. “Leave my feet out of this,” she said, her voice taking on a prickly sort of pitch as she hurriedly jammed her foot into the remaining boot.

“I think they may be bigger than mine,” Griffin added, scratching his chin in a thoughtful sort of way.

“I can’t help it if I have big feet!” she blurted. “It’s genetic!”

“Genetic.”

She nodded curtly, jerking her coat off the peg on the wall and swinging it over her shoulders. “If you haven’t noticed, all the men in my family are big, ergo, big feet run in the family. Genetics.”

“Maybe,” he agreed as he reached for his coat, “but you’re not a man.”

She snapped her mouth closed on whatever retort she’d been forming and scowled at him, yanking open the front door and stomping out onto the porch.

With a sigh, he followed her, seeing no way out of it since she was set on making him enjoy the scene, he supposed. She hunkered down beside the porch to plug in the bright orange outdoor extension cord.

Griffin made a face—he couldn’t help himself—at the eyesore that greeted him. Isabelle laughed and darted across the yard to stand by the street, ostensibly taking in the sight that he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to see. She called out to him, and he heaved a sigh, asking himself yet again just how she’d managed to talk him into—he winced as he turned to eye his yard— _that_ . . .

“Oh, my God,” he muttered, shaking his head as a sinking feeling not unlike the sensation of drowning deluged him. From the giant Santa to the plastic candy canes lining the sidewalk to the lurid flashing of Rudolph’s nose on the cheap plastic reindeer standing in the midst of his yard, the entire tableaux was enhanced by the racing tube of lights that delineated the roof and porch of what used to be his domain, Griffin couldn’t help but wonder how he could go about destroying the items without drawing Isabelle’s suspicions.

“Isn’t it _fantastic?_ ” Isabelle gushed.

“That’s not exactly the word that comes to mind, no,” he said slowly.

“It looks great!” she went on, taking no note of Griffin’s less-than-enthusiastic reaction. “I still think we should have gotten the giant Frosty the Snowman . . .”

“There’s more than enough crap in my yard,” Griffin stated flatly. “No Frosty.”

“The neighborhood children will love it,” she predicted, clapping her mittened hands happily.

He snorted, noting with a heavy sigh that from his vantage point, he could see the damn Winnie the Pooh tree topper illuminated in blinking lights. “Why do I have the feeling that I’m slowly losing all credibility?” he grouched.

“It’s for the children. Just remember that,” she chided, linking her arm around his as she took in the results of her efforts with a bright smile.

Griffin wasn’t as inclined to believe her, but he grunted in response and slowly shook his head. “Don’t stay out all night or you’ll freeze,” he mumbled, carefully shaking her arm off as he started to lumber toward the house once more. He had to be losing his mind, he reasoned. There was a good chance that all the flashing lights were going to give him a migraine by the time all was said and done. Maybe he ought to consider boarding up his bedroom window until the holidays were over . . .

His house looked absolutely ridiculous, and he still wasn’t sure exactly why he’d let Isabelle do all of the decorating, and yes, he hated to admit as much, but he’d helped, too. Wincing as a sharp pain stabbed at his lower back, he sighed yet again. He’d played right into her hands, hadn’t he? Adamantly refusing to admit that dragging the tree through the forest and forcing it through the back door just might have been too much for him, he’d gritted his teeth and done it anyway while Isabelle moved things aside to ‘make his job a little easier’.

No doubt about it, he’d be feeling the overexertion by morning. He’d count himself lucky if he was able to stand up tomorrow, let alone walk at all . . .

‘ _You know well enough why you agreed_ ,’ his youkai blood piped up.

‘ _Do I?_ ’

‘ _Sure, and you’re right. She has a damn nice smile, doesn’t she?_ ’

The truth in his youkai’s words hit home, and Griffin grimaced. Was he really as shallow as all that? Agreeing to something that he never, ever would have agreed to otherwise simply because Isabelle Izayoi smiled at him?

And somehow he didn’t dare answer that question, either. As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, there was a hint of truth to those words, and recalling the brilliance of her child-like awe, Griffin couldn’t escape the raw surge of panic that swept through him. He felt as though he were losing control of his body, of himself. Everything that he’d ever wanted seemed to float just out of his grasp, off in the distance, wavering like a dream or a fantasy, and yet the smiles that illuminated her entire being were for him; just for him. All he had to do was reach out and touch her . . . but that was the impossibility, wasn’t it, and even if it were, she deserved better than to be relegated to little more than the woman living with the town freak, didn’t she?

Snorting indelicately at the direction of his thoughts, Griffin’s scowl deepened as he stomped toward the basement door. Completely disgusted at himself for his perceived weakness, he sorely needed to distance himself from her before he started spouting poetry or worse. He’d almost reached his sanctuary—his hand was touching the cool brass knob—when Isabelle’s voice sounded behind him.

“Do you want to try those cookies now?”

He stopped but didn’t turn to face her. He could smell the brisk night air emanating from her as she moved toward the kitchen though he couldn’t hear her. “No,” he mumbled, absently wondering why the sound of her voice could rip him wide open yet soothe him at the same time.

“Are you sure? Pecans and molasses? Then I guess I’ll just eat them all by myself . . .”

She just _had_ to mention the pecans, didn’t she? Silently cursing himself for arming her with the knowledge about his affinity for nuts in general and pecans in particular, he let his hand fall away from the door as he slowly pivoted on his heel to pin her with a bored glower. “Don’t touch my cookies,” he stated.

Isabelle laughed and strolled into the kitchen, pouring him a glass of farm-fresh milk and retrieving a can of Diet Coke as she nodded at the cookies still arranged on the wire cooling racks. “I don’t suppose I can have just one?” she mused, an amused glimmer sparkling in the depths of her bright golden eyes.

“I don’t suppose you can,” he agreed mildly, shoving a whole cookie into his mouth.

“But I should sample the recipe, don’t you think? See if it’s worth making again?”

“Good enough,” he allowed, still chewing his cookie as he held out his hand for the milk.

Isabelle handed it to him, a triumphant little smirk on her face as she watched him grab another cookie and repeat the shoving process.

‘ _All right_ ,’ he thought as he stacked the remaining cookies and headed for the living room. ‘ _So she can bake . . . passably_.’

‘ _Among other things_.’

Griffin snorted, making a face at the sight of his recliner shoved back into a corner so that it would be out of the way of the Christmas tree. ‘. . . _Among other things_ . . .’

His youkai blood just laughed.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

The soft clatter of claws drumming against the surface of the wide desk resounded in the quiet of the darkened office. The creak of the chair interrupted when she sat back, resting her elbow on the armrest as she scowled at the artificial glow of the computer monitor. It was exactly as she’d told Gunnar a few days ago: there simply weren’t any viable leads that pointed to the existence of one Griffin Marin in any way, shape, or form prior to the date on his birth certificate, and not for the first time, she had to wonder if he weren’t searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack.

Still, Gunnar was one of the brightest minds she’d ever had the opportunity to work with even if she adamantly refused to acknowledge such a thing to the puppy. His ego was inflated enough, she figured. She didn’t need to add to it, now did she?

Myrna flicked her wrist and glanced at her watch. She’d been making phone calls all day, attempting to schmooze information out of contacts she hadn’t had to use in years, and all of them had taken the time to poke at her for being, in their terms, one of Zelig’s lap-dogs . . .

She had a handful of people left that she could call, but she honestly wasn’t holding out much hope that any of them would be any more helpful than the ones she’d already tried.

Still . . .

Heaving a sigh, she pushed in the keyboard shelf and reached for the telephone. If she only had a little more information to go on, maybe she could dig up something more on the elusive bear-youkai.

Scrolling through her Digi-dex to find the number she was looking for, Myrna dialed it into the phone and leaned back with a defeated exhalation. It was fairly late, but if memory served, he didn’t keep normal hours, anyway . . .

“Masta.”

“Attean, how are you?” Myrna greeted.

The hanyou chuckled softly. “Well, well . . . now here’s a voice I’ve not heard in years. How are you?”

Myrna rolled her eyes but smiled to herself. “I’m fine, thank you, and you’re as charming as ever, Attean . . . I trust you’ve been taking good care of Maria?”

“Always,” he agreed easily enough. Of all of the youkai in her network of communication, she had to admit that Attean Masta had always been one of the more personable to deal with.

“Good. You’ll have to tell her that I said hello.”

“I can do that,” he allowed. “Suppose you tell me why you called? Surely it isn’t social . . .?”

Smiling at his indulgent tone of voice, Myrna laughed softly. “I was being polite,” she pointed out though her amusement hadn’t diminished. “If you insist, though . . . I wondered . . . I’m looking for information on a bear-youkai . . .”

“Hmm, a bear-youkai . . . that’s a fairly broad request.”

“Yeah . . . The records show that he was born in 2017, but there’s reason to believe that he’s been around awhile. He goes by the name of Griffin Marin . . . think you can help me out here?”

Attean was silent for a moment, and she could hear the squeak of his chair as he leaned back and pondered her question. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I can. Has he drawn the ire of the Zelig?”

“No, not exactly . . . We just had a few questions about him; that’s all.”

“Quite a lot of trouble to go to just to ask a few questions.”

“Maybe,” she agreed slowly. “If you hear anything . . .”

“I’ll be sure to get a hold of you,” he promised.

Myrna sighed and rubbed her face. “Thanks, and, uh . . . happy holidays.”

“You, too.”

The line went dead, and Myrna dropped the receiver into the cradle with a shake of her head and flopped back, letting her head rest against the high headrest and closing her eyes.

Nothing made sense, did it? Surely someone somewhere had heard of Griffin Marin. There had to be someone who knew something. It was just a matter of tracking them down, and the longer that Myrna spent working on it, the more determined she was to uncover the truth. After all, her reputation was on the line, wasn’t it? She was the best in the business, damn it.

It was just a matter of time . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle tucked her feet up under her and adjusted her glasses as she scowled at the notes that Griffin had managed to translate, barely taking note as he shuffled over to drop another log on the crackling fire.

“It makes sense, right?” he asked, breaking the companionable silence that had fallen in the room.

Isabelle blinked and pulled off her glasses as she lowered her knees, letting the notebook slide off her legs as she turned her full attention on Griffin. “Yeah, it does,” she assured him with a wan smile. After the excitement of the day, she had to admit that she was feeling a little tired from it all. “You’re making faster progress than I figured you would.”

“Not nearly fast enough,” he mumbled, grimacing slightly when he bent over to pick up a few fallen pine needles.

“Are you all right?” she asked slowly, carefully. She knew very well that he hadn’t intended for her to see what he would perceive as a vulnerability.

He shot her a dark look and stubbornly shook his head, straightening up slowly before stomping off to throw away the needles. She didn’t miss the slight stiffness in his movements, and she didn’t miss the marked tightening of his jaw, either.

It wasn’t the first time that she’d wondered about the physical state of his body. She’d had way too many hints over the time since she’d moved in with him to ignore, and she frowned as a pang of guilt shot through her. He’d carried that tree back by himself, and while she’d jokingly said she would help, she had a feeling that she’d done little more than sting his pride with her offer, and he was suffering for it, wasn’t he?

She hadn’t thought of him at all, and because of that, he was in pain. For a woman who swore that Griffin was the man for her, she had a horrible way of showing it, didn’t she . . .?

‘ _Don’t beat yourself up over it, Bitty_ ,’ her youkai said in an uncharacteristically gentle tone. ‘ _You didn’t think about it because he didn’t want you to think about it . . . there’s nothing more to it than that_ . . .’

‘ _That’s not true . . . I should have known . . . He’s hurting, and it’s my fault, and_ —’

‘ _And if you make a fuss over him now, he’s going to retreat again. You know he will_.’

‘ _Still, there has to be something I can do . . . there has to be some way I can make him feel a little better_ . . .’

‘ _Leave it alone, okay? Leave his pride intact . . . You’re making progress; slow to be sure, but progress is progress_ . . .’

‘ _Am I?_ ’ she wondered with a shake of her head, frowning unhappily as she rubbed her thighs through the thick material of her flannel lounge pants.

‘ _Yes, you are . . . you got him out of the house, didn’t you? You got him to decorate for Christmas even if he did grumble the entire time. You know damn well that he never would have allowed it a few weeks ago. He’s softening a little. You just have to be patient_.’

It was true, wasn’t it? Bolstered by her youkai’s pep-talk, she smiled wanly, leaning her temple on the back of the sofa as a soft laugh escaped her.

He wandered back into the room with mugs in both of his hands. Isabelle masked her surprise as he set one on the coffee table beside her and refrained from comment since he’d never done that before. While he had herbal tea in his mug—she could smell the fragrant tang of the leaves he used—her mug contained coffee—doubly surprising since he never failed to inform her that it wasn’t good for her in the least.

“Thank you,” she said, twisting around and patting the sofa beside her.

Griffin narrowed his gaze as though he were waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak. In the end, he sat down and sighed before slowly sipping his tea. “Before you get any more bright ideas, I’m not going Christmas caroling,” he stated flatly.

Hiding her amusement behind the thick earthenware mug of steaming coffee, Isabelle peered over the brim. “I’ll leave the singing to my cousin, thanks,” she murmured as her smile widened. He’d added honey to her coffee instead of sugar—gentle censure, she supposed.

“Your cousin?” he echoed, casting her a quizzical glance.

“Sure,” she agreed with a shrug. “Evan’s much better at it than I am.”

“You mean there is something you can’t do?”

While he’d made the observation in a cynical sort of tone, Isabelle was still touched by the unspoken sentiment. He never said exactly what he meant, did he, and yet somehow she always understood. “There are lots of things I can’t do,” she admitted quietly.

“And you’re willing to fess up to that?”

She giggled. “Why not? I’m not perfect . . . far from it, actually. I tend to be a little too impetuous, or so they tell me.”

“Who’d have thought it,” he muttered, cheeks reddening as he shifted his gaze away from her.

Isabelle grinned. “And I follow my heart too much—at least that’s what Mamoruzen says.”

He paused with the mug poised at his lips. “Mamoruzen?”

Setting her mug back on the coffee table, Isabelle turned on the sofa, drawing one leg up against her chest and leaned to the side. “Another cousin—my _closest_ cousin: Mamoruzen Inutaisho . . . Of course, he tends to be a little too pragmatic, if you ask my opinion—and he’s always sticking his nose into my business though he says it’s because he is concerned about me.”

“But you don’t believe him?”

She shrugged. “No, it’s not that . . . I believe that he does in his own sick and twisted sort of way. Mamoruzen just tends to be a little too distrustful of everyone on the whole.”

Griffin pondered that for a moment then shrugged as though it were of no real consequence. “Trusting anyone without reason is just asking for trouble. Sounds to me like your cousin’s just trying to save you from yourself.”

Smiling despite the small quirk of irritation that Griffin really would side with Gunnar, Isabelle sighed. “And I say that trying to live while constantly looking over your shoulder to see who is out to get you isn’t really living at all.”

“Spoken like a true woman,” Griffin decided. “Nothing wrong with thinking things through, and there’s nothing wrong with being realistic . . . and you never know just who is behind you, for that matter.”

“Realistic, huh . . . Is that what you are?” she asked softly.

He grunted and finished off his tea as a faraway sort of expression entered the depths of his eyes. There was a certain sadness there, too; a melancholy that she wished she understood. “S’ppose,” he admitted at last.

He sat there for another minute before pushing himself to his feet and leaving her there to ponder exactly what he’d meant. In the end, she sighed. Realistic, maybe, but still . . . sometimes she thought that she was getting closer to understanding him, and others . . .

Other times she wasn’t sure she understood a damn thing about him; not at all.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _Delightfully tacky_ …


	18. Censure

Isabelle glanced at the incident report paper clipped to the front of the file as she strode down the hallway toward examination room three. Well into her first week at the clinic, she had to admit that the change of pace was most welcome. She only worked three days a week though she did do rounds when patients needed it, and while she’d wanted a reduction in work hours, the extra free time was something that might take some getting used to.

Still she couldn’t complain. She’d taken over for another doctor who had decided to take an indefinite leave when his mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, and for the most part, the patients were very enthusiastic about the change; at least they were after their initial worries were assuaged. Because of the suddenness of the change, Isabelle had been swamped with the patients who wanted to consult with her prior to committing to keep her on as their doctor. Two of her new patients were well within the final weeks of their pregnancies, and one of them was her next appointment. The woman had slipped and fallen outside the grocery store last night, and while she said that she felt fine, Isabelle didn’t particularly want to take any chances.

“Hi, Kristen,” she greeted, smiling in a reassuring way as she breezed into the room. “How are you feeling today?”

Kristen McKinley heaved a sigh, rubbing her distended belly with a loving hand. “In a word? Big . . . but honestly, Dr. Izayoi, I feel fine.”

“Good, good . . . Can’t be too careful, though,” she replied. “The baby’s been active since the fall?”

Kristen nodded. “Yes, very . . . She was constantly doing somersaults and squirming around . . . I never thought I’d get to sleep last night!”

Isabelle nodded, setting the file aside before helping Kristen to lie back on the examination table. She couldn’t help but smile at the very active baby that didn’t like the prone position her mother had assumed. “And there was no bleeding? No pains?” Isabelle questioned.

“No, none,” Kristen answered, grimacing as Isabelle helped her sit up.

“That’s great,” Isabelle assured her. Though she seemed calm enough, Isabelle could smell the heightened awareness, the anxiety, that Kristen was trying to keep at bay.

“So what are the odds that she’ll be born before Christmas?” Kristen tried to joke.

Isabelle smiled. “Well, that’s hard to say. You’re not actually due until the middle of January, right? Still, if she came a little early, that’d be okay, too.”

“She’d be a pretty good Christmas present,” Kristin commented. “One that I wouldn’t ever forget.”

Isabelle laughed and nodded her agreement, relieved that Kristin was finally calming down a little bit. She hurried through a basic exam since she knew very well that in Kristin’s advanced stage of pregnancy that she couldn’t possibly be comfortable, and she was pleased to find nothing that seemed out of sorts. “Everything seems fine,” she said, giving Kristen’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “As a final precaution, though, I’d like to have you do a urine sample, and if anything should happen—you start having pains or you start bleeding—you come in or call me, okay?”

Kristin’s smile was genuinely relieved, and she nodded. “All right.”

Isabelle dug in her pocket for a business card even though she was certain she’d given one to Kristen during her consultation earlier in the week. “Here,” she said, handing the card to the mother-to-be. “This is my cell number. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call, no matter what time it is.”

Kristin’s smile brightened. “Thank you.”

“If there aren’t any problems, I’ll see you next week. I’ll send in a nurse to take you to the bathroom to do your sample, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks again!”

Isabelle nodded and hooked her stethoscope around her neck as she strode out of the room, satisfied that both Kristen and baby were going to be just fine. She hadn’t been really worried, but then, one could never tell, and it really was better to be safe than sorry, especially when it came to humans.

Checking her watch, she stepped into her office and let out a gust of breath that lifted her bangs into the air. Less than a half hour, and she’d be off for the rest of the week since she only worked Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays with hospital duties if she had patients to see. Though she was used to having a time when she was supposed to get off work, she was also used to being delayed by one thing or another. It really was a novelty for her to actually be done with work when she was supposed to be.

All in all, she figured things were looking up. Griffin wasn’t being quite as standoffish as he used to be, and that was progress, and the translations were coming along faster than she’d expected. He was nearly a quarter of the way through the first binder, and that was something considering he was dealing with a lot of technical jargon that had to be rougher to translate than a simple journal.

She couldn’t help but smile at the thought of the consternated expression he got on his face whenever he reached a particularly vexing passage. He looked every bit like a grouchy bear just waking up from hibernation that it was a task to contain her amusement at those times . . .

He was coming around, slowly but surely, and as much as Isabelle wished that he’d move along a little faster, she was thankful enough for the progress that she’d made. It was just a matter of time before he admitted that she was his mate . . .

She grinned as she pulled out a notepad to jot down a quick shopping list since she’d printed out a recipe for pecan crusted salmon over lunch earlier in the day. Griffin would love it, she didn’t doubt, and what was that old saying her mother had used before?

The grin widened as she tapped the end of the pen against her lips. ‘ _The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach_ . . .’

That certainly seemed to be the case at times with Griffin . . . maybe he wasn’t really so different, after all . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Griffin stood in front of the Christmas tree with one arm crossed over his chest and his elbow propped in his hand thoughtfully scratching his chin as he frowned at the Christmas tree. Charlie whined beside him, his tail thumping heavily against the floor.

He’d just gotten home from the university about half an hour ago, and he’d sat down to work on the translations only to catch himself eyeing the tree, instead.

‘ _It’s her fault_ ,’ he mumbled to himself, scowl darkening the slightest bit as he spared a momentary glance at the dog.

‘ _You’re blaming your lack of self-control on Isabelle?_ ’

He snorted. ‘ _Sounds about right_.’

‘ _Pathetic. Truly pathetic_ . . .’

‘ _Shut up or help me figure out how to do this, will you?_ ’

His youkai heaved a sigh but fell silent, which suited Griffin just fine.

“What do you think, Charlie? Think we’ll get in trouble if we eat that?”

Charlie whined and wagged his tail a little harder.

“. . . You can have the popcorn,” Griffin allowed then sighed. “She’ll notice, won’t she?”

Yes, she would notice if he ate the garland she’d made by stringing popcorn, cranberries, and pecans on white thread that she’d bought specifically for the task. Every time he’d tried to grab the pecans out of the bowl on the coffee table, she’d slapped his hands away, stating that they were for the tree and that he’d leave them alone if he knew what was good for him. In a last-ditch effort to keep Griffin out of them, Isabelle had given him a big bag of honey roasted pecans, as though she really believed that it would keep him away from the ones she was poking holes in . . .

Charlie half-whined, half-growled, and Griffin nodded sagely. He wanted at the string as much as Griffin did. The only real question was whether Isabelle’s irritation would ultimately be worth the sacrifice, though to be brutally honest, he rather thought that it would be . . .

Besides that, she wouldn’t be home for a little while, anyway. If he got rid of all the evidence, maybe he could convince her that she’d just imagined making the garland, in the first place . . .

A curt knock on the door, however, saved the garland, at least for the moment. Uttering a sound not unlike a growl, Griffin shuffled off to answer it.

He wasn’t sure who he expected to be standing on the other side of the door, but his scowl deepened as he came face to face with a hanyou he’d never met before. He stood eye-level with Griffin, his black hair blowing haplessly in the winter wind, his expression stoic, if not even a little bored. Only his eyes burned with an unearthly intensity—eyes that were entirely unsettling and yet wholly familiar at the same time. Golden eyes just like Isabelle’s eyes, and Griffin understood: so this was the cousin, Mamoruzen . . . the future Japanese tai-youkai . . .

“Griffin Marin, I take it?” the hanyou asked, his tone steely, determined.

He didn’t answer.

Griffin’s lack of a response seemed to further his irritation. “I’d like to talk to you,” he went on brusquely, slapping a pair of expensive black leather gloves against his thigh.

“Isabelle’s not here,” Griffin rumbled, answering Mamoruzen’s unvoiced challenge without blinking an eye.

“So I gathered . . . I’m not here to see her.”

Nodding once in response, Griffin stepped over the threshold, pulling the front door closed behind him.

“There’s no sense in beating around the bush, don’t you think? Why don’t you tell me what it is you think to gain?” the hanyou demanded, narrowing his eyes as though he were trying to see inside Griffin’s head. “What are you after . . .? You know, right? Izzy’s got money; her family’s powerful . . . Are you looking for some kind of favor? Some sort of deferential treatment?”

“Leave,” Griffin growled as stabbing pains from the harsh sunlight reflecting off the snow erupted behind his glare. Resisting the desire to shield his eyes against the light, he willed his arms to remain loose at his sides.

Offering him a completely insincere little smile, the hanyou shook his head. “Not until I get some answers. Tell me what you’re hiding.”

Griffin grunted at that but still refused to answer. He heard the rhythmic hum of Isabelle’s sports car pulling into the driveway but didn’t even try to look to verify it. Seconds later, the woman in question darted up the steps onto the porch and insinuated herself between Griffin and his unwelcome visitor. The grating chime of the driver’s side door that she’d left wide open in her haste to intercede clanged in his head. Still Griffin refused to look away from Mamoruzen’s face, refused to give so much as an inch in the battle of wills.

“Mamoruzen . . . what are you doing here?” she asked in a breathless, hopelessly bright, tone.

His gaze flicked over her for a moment before blatantly dismissing her as though she were of no real consequence. “I came for answers,” he said as his eyes narrowed on Griffin once more.

Gritting his teeth as an irrational surge of anger threatened to boil over, Griffin’s fingers twitched uncontrollably as he fought to restrain the nearly overwhelming urge to wrap his hands around Isabelle’s beloved cousin’s neck.

Whether she sensed the mayhem that was rife in the air or simply because she wanted to avoid the escalating confrontation, Isabelle stepped forward, placed her hands in the middle of Mamoruzen’s chest and gently shoved him back. “I said _no_ , damn it!” she hissed. It registered in his mind that she wasn’t necessarily trying to hide whatever involvement she had in it from him. Anger seethed in her youki in nearly palpable waves, and even the hanyou spared a moment to blink at her in unabashed surprise before pushing her aside and stepping around her.

“Tell me who you are,” the hanyou ground out as he closed the distance between himself and Griffin.

Griffin fought to keep his expression impassive, jaw clenching in silent refusal to answer any questions at all. It registered in the back of his mind that he’d do well to keep a tight rein on his temper. Still, he didn’t like the intrusion, and he wasn’t about to answer the questions of a noisy cub who still looked to be a little wet behind the ears. Sparing another long minute to glower at Mamoruzen, Griffin finally turned around and stomped back into the house.

It burned him, no doubt about it. Having some whelp show up on his front porch only to demand answers without any provocation and without the basest of pleasantries just wasn’t something that Griffin would tolerate, and the longer he dwelled on it, the angrier he became. He had no right— _no right_ —to show up here the way he had, and Griffin would be damned before he’d give an inch to a child like him..

Had _she_ done this? It was obvious that she’d said enough to raise her cousin’s suspicions. Stalking through the house, he didn’t stop until he reached the back door and flung it open wide. He wasn’t sure what to believe, and as much as he didn’t want to think that she’d willingly set him up, he was just too angry to stay inside.

Ignoring the cold bite on the wind, he lumbered across the yard, smashing his palm against the stout wooden gate. It snapped open with a shuddering groan—he’d probably have to repair it later. He could still feel the acerbic tinge of Mamoruzen’s youki fouling the air as he disappeared into the forest.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle grimaced as the door slammed shut before rounding on Gunnar, eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms over her chest and glowered up at him.

“Don’t start with me,” he said in lieu of the apology that she figured he ought to be making.

“Oh, I’ll start with you, all right,” she muttered. “Suppose you tell me just what the hell you thought you were doing?”

Planting his hands on his lean hips, Gunnar’s glower turned near mutinous as he slowly shook his head. “What I’m doing,” he said, his tone carefully even and completely at odds with the mayhem that brightened his jewel-like eyes, “is trying to get some answers.”

“You don’t need answers, Mamoruzen,” she cut in coldly, nostrils flaring as her temper flared even higher. “I’ve told you, it’s none of your business! Leave him alone or—”

“Or what, Izzy? What, exactly, will you do?” he challenged, the tight hold he had on his own temper slipping in response to her own. “You don’t have a clue who that guy is! Did you know? He’s hiding his past! _Hiding_ it! Do you get it?”

“And I’m telling you, I don’t care! He has reasons for what he does, and you . . . How _dare_ you judge him! You don’t even know him!”

“And you do?” Gunnar challenged, stepping toward her, grasping her upper arms in his vice-like grip.

“I know him better than you do!” she hissed, wrenching herself free only to poke her index finger in the center of his chest to emphasize her words. “He’s a good man. I know he is. I told you to leave him alone, and I mean it! Leave. Him. Alone.”

The iciness in his eyes dulled almost instantly as the cold mask of indifference slammed down over his features. The only trace sign of his emotions was the slight ticking in his jaw; the almost imperceptible quiver of his nostrils as he regarded her with a cold stare. “He’s not what you think he is,” Gunnar maintained in a deadly quiet tone. “Even if you don’t want to see it, I do, and I’ll be damned if I’ll just sit back and let you make a fool of yourself when it’s clear to me that your Dr. Marin is not the saint you want to believe he is.”

“I never said he was a saint,” she whispered, her anger fading almost as suddenly as it had surfaced. Turning away from him, she rubbed her arms through the thick wool of her coat as she scanned the surroundings as though she were searching for answers. “There are no such things as saints; not in this world . . . but he’s not the monster you’re trying to make him out to be, either. You don’t know him like I do. You don’t know . . .” Trailing off, she drew a deep breath, glancing down at her hands before raising her gaze once more, a troubled frown furrowing her brow as she struggled to find the words to voice the things she felt. “You . . . _everyone_ . . . treats him like he’s some sort of beast. He gets these looks everywhere he goes—the kind of looks that children get right after they tell you they’ve seen the boogeyman under their bed—and he doesn’t deserve those . . . he’s gentle, and he’s kind . . . and he’s . . . _beautiful_ —at least, he is to me.” Spinning around on her heel, she dashed the back of her hand over her suspiciously bright eyes. “Leave him alone, Mamoruzen. Just leave him alone.”

Gunnar heaved a sigh and slowly shook his head before rubbing his eyes with an exasperated hand and scowling at Isabelle’s back. “I can’t,” he said, the barest hint of regret in his voice. “I’m sorry, Izzy, but . . . I have to do this, whether you like it or not.”

“You have to,” she echoed as a sad little smile twitched on her lips; as a darkness—a sadness—clouded her eyes. “You don’t, you know. You really don’t. I thought you were the one I could rely on. I used to think that you were perfect; did you know? But you’re not . . . you’re no different from anyone else.”

“Go get your things. You’re not staying here with him.”

Her back stiffened at the sound of his words. Softly uttered but no less forceful, he really thought she’d comply with his wishes, didn’t he? Isabelle shook her head, stomping back to her car to shut it off and grab the groceries she’d left when she’d spotted Gunnar and Griffin standing on the porch looking like they were ready to light into one another. Jerking her keys out of the ignition, she swiped up the bags and kicked the door closed with every intention of marching straight past Gunnar and shutting the door in his face.

He grabbed her arm as she tried to stride past, his gaze searching, probing. “I don’t want to leave you here; not until I know more about him.”

She stared at him for a moment, her gaze meeting his without faltering. On some level, she could appreciate his concern, but it didn’t excuse the fact that he still treated her like a child, even after they’d grown up long ago. “It’s not up to you,” she said quietly. “It’s up to _me_ . . . and I choose to stay.”

Pulling away from him, she didn’t spare another glance over her shoulder as she stepped into the house. It wasn’t until after she’d slumped against the closed door and heard his retreating footsteps followed minutes later by the sound of his car that she closed her eyes and sighed.

She could appreciate his concern, sure, and maybe he was right to worry on some level, but the Griffin she knew was everything she’d said he was; she knew that as certainly as she knew her own name. This time Gunnar was wrong, and even if Griffin did have things in his past that he wasn’t particularly proud of, didn’t everyone? There wasn’t a damn thing that could change the way she felt about the man, and Gunnar could just get used to that.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle bit her lip and leaned on the counter over the sink to peer out the window at the falling darkness. Griffin had been gone for a while, and she was starting to worry. Her imagination had always been keen. As the minutes ticked away, she started to worry that maybe Gunnar hadn’t really left but had hidden his car so that he could track Griffin down to rake him over the coals a little more. About as quickly as the idea had occurred to her, though, she’d realized that there just wasn’t any way that Gunnar would do anything quite as sneaky as that. No, the man’s ego was a little too big, and he’d never, ever have thought about hiding anything. Still she had to wonder . . . Griffin had been gone for nearly four hours, and while she hesitated to go after him since she wasn’t at all sure that he didn’t blame her for the Gunnar debacle, she couldn’t help but think that his conspicuous absence was just not a good sign . . .

She’d prepared everything for dinner but hadn’t started cooking the salmon steaks since they only had to sear for a few minutes on each side. Even Griffin’s salad was ready and the water for his tea was simmering in the old fashioned whistling kettle on the stove.

Biting her lip, she turned around, staring at the immaculate kitchen. Froofie padded into the room, head lowered as though he were upset. ‘ _He thinks there’s something wrong, too,_ ’ she realized with a grimace. ‘ _Griffin should be here—and he’s not_ . . .’

“Don’t worry,” she said, pushing herself away from the counter and striding toward the foyer to retrieve her coat with Froofie fast on her heels. Frowning as she grabbed Griffin’s coat off the hook beside hers, she shook her head. He’d been so irritated he’d forgotten to take his coat? She sighed as she draped it over her arm, striding toward the back door. “We’ll go find him, okay? After all, he’s been alone for a while . . . he can’t be that angry anymore . . .”

At least, she hoped he wasn’t . . .

It didn’t take her long to figure out where he’d gone, and it was pretty easy to follow him since it had snowed last night. His tracks led off into the forest, and Isabelle quickened her pace as Froofie bounded ahead of her.

The temperature was dropping, and with a shiver, Isabelle wrapped her scarf around her neck and brought Griffin’s coat up to her nose only to sigh when she realized a little too late that her senses were too dull for her to be able to track him, and she could barely discern the scent of him that should have clung to the garment. “Find him, Froofie,” she called, squinting as the pulse beat sounded in her ears. For a few precious seconds, she clung to the remnants of her youkai blood before it faded away.

The forest seemed so much darker; so much denser as she glanced around. Froofie whined and darted ahead only to run back to her, pushing his nose against her hand. He wasn’t a tracking dog. He’d never be able to find Griffin . . .

She considered turning back, but discarded the idea. It wouldn’t do any good, anyway since she’d do nothing but stare out the window and drive herself insane. Deliberately ignoring the tiny voice in her head that told her that everyone was likely to have a fit if they knew that she was out wandering the forest alone in her human form, she trudged along the path, deeper into the trees.

She couldn’t tell if the temperature was dropping or if it was her human state that made the cold that much more cutting, but she jammed her teeth together in an effort to keep from shivering, pulling her coat closer around her as she forced her legs to move forward. The sounds of the night came at her from every direction with the underlying groan of the wind in the trees adding a disorienting undercurrent to the world at large. Fear wasn’t something that Isabelle felt often, but she couldn’t help the trill that raced up her spine as she whistled for Froofie.

He didn’t come back to her.

Stumbling over a fallen branch that she couldn’t see in the darkness, Isabelle caught herself before she fell in the dirty mire of decaying leaves and slushy snow. It took a moment for her to catch her breath again, and she couldn’t help the little whimper that slipped from her lips as she stared around at the unfamiliar territory. The woods that seemed so welcoming, so inviting during the daylight hours had shifted into a living, breathing thing, and the whispers in the shadows seemed to call her name.

‘ _Get a hold of yourself, Bitty_ ,’ she told herself sternly in a tone that sounded remarkably like her cousin, Bastian’s voice. ‘ _It’s nothing but your imagination . . . just your imagination, all right?_ ’

She knew it was. In her logical mind, she knew damn well that she wasn’t in any real danger. Squaring her shoulders, she frowned at the path before her. It branched off to the left, and she sighed, wishing that Froofie had come back to help her decide which fork to take . . .

Closing her eyes, she drew a deep breath, gnawing on her bottom lip as she willed her body to relax. It didn’t really work, but then she hadn’t actually expected it to. Shaking her head and hoping against hope that she wasn’t going to end up completely lost, Isabelle started down the left path.

She’d completely lost track of time. It was too dark for her to make out the time on her watch. Her cheeks felt chafed from the blowing wind; her nostrils stung with every breath she drew. She heard the dulled burble of running water and followed it.

The trees grew denser as the sound grew louder. More than once, she nearly tripped over tangled roots that stuck out of the ground in an effort to thwart her. Stumbling into the clearing, she blinked at the sudden light—a gentle light—that flowed down from the thousands of stars in the moonless sky and reflected off the fresh blanket of pristine white snow, sparkling like a million diamonds; sparkling like the sea . . . The Penobscot River frothed and rolled, untouched by the cold that was fast seeping into Isabelle’s very bones.

A soft whine broke through her reverie, and she spun around on her heel, uttering a harsh little cry when she spotted Griffin sitting on a fallen tree and leaning heavily against Froofie. She ran over to him, skidding and slipping and almost falling, dropping to her knees in the snow before him after she draped his coat over his shoulders. “Griffin?” she called gently, yanking her mitten off with her teeth and pressing her hand against his pale cheek.

He jerked back, eyes flashing open, and he blinked a few times to clear his head as a suspicious darkness entered his gaze. “What are you doing . . . out here?” he rasped out, clumsily trying to shove his arms into his sleeves.

“I came to find you,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s late, you know . . .”

He shrugged and brushed her hands aside when she reached out to help him with his coat. “I don’t need your help,” he grumbled.

Forcing a smile, she nodded. “I know.”

“I was resting; that’s all,” he went on, casting her a fulminating glower.

“Sure.”

“. . . Stop patronizing me, damn it.”

“I’m not,” she said, reaching out to help him to his feet but jerking her hand back before he noticed it, unsure if he was angry at her; unsure about a lot of things. There was something wrong, wasn’t there? It was there in his bearing, in his stature. He looked . . . almost defeated, and that realization stung her deep.

He stood slowly, stiffly, and she couldn’t tell if he really was pale or if it was the weak light that was casting stark shadows over the planes of his face, but it seemed to her that he was limping, and that concerned her more than anything. “Did you fall?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Griffin’s head snapped to the side, his eyes glittering dangerously as he stared at her. “No.”

Pursing her lips, biting back the comment that was on the top of her tongue, she watched in silence as he shuffled his feet, his movements far too slow, far too wooden to be normal. Froofie licked her hand and trudged along behind Griffin, leaving Isabelle where she stood.

‘ _He doesn’t have his cane_ ,’ she thought suddenly, her eyes widening as Griffin stopped to lean against a tree. ‘ _That’s what it is, isn’t it? He . . . he’s not angry at all, is he . . .? No, it’s more like . . . he’s in pain_ . . .’

She watched him for another minute before lowering her chin stubbornly and striding over to intercept the man. He started to protest when she ducked under his arm, grasping his hand in hers as she pulled his arm around her shoulders and tossed him a belligerent stare.

For a few moments, he seemed like he wanted to argue with her, and he opened his mouth a couple times only to snap it closed again. Certainly, he could be stubborn, but that was just too damn bad because she could be, too, and if he really wanted to have a battle of wills, she supposed she was up for it. He narrowed his gaze on her, shaking his head like he was trying to figure her out. She refused to look away, knowing deep down that if she did, she’d lose. In the end, she wasn’t sure if he just didn’t have it in him to fight her or if he simply figured he wouldn’t win. Either way, he grunted in ill-grace but leaned against her, letting her help him toward the path—toward home.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _Stubborn man_ …


	19. A Gentle Chiding

Griffin winced, unable to control the pained hiss of breath that whooshed out of him as he dropped onto the sofa, wondering absently when the last time was that his home had seemed so inviting. Though the walk back to the house had only taken an hour, it had seemed like much, much longer. As it was, he’d had to prostrate himself, leaning on Isabelle so much that she’d almost fallen more than once, and though he was fairly certain that he’d put an unwelcome strain on her, she hadn’t complained even once.

Isabelle uttered a sharp little whimper and rushed around to help him shift to the side so that he could pull his arm out from underneath himself. His legs kept alternating between numbness and mind-boggling pains that shot straight to his brain. He couldn’t stand the nagging condemnations that kept chasing themselves around his mind. He knew his limitations; he should have realized that he would end up this way. As the excruciating pains rattled through him—pains so bad that his vision blurred and darkened around the edges as he held his breath and willed the ache to pass—he berated himself silently for his own perceived stupidity. He’d been careless, taking off without his cane, too angry to think in any sort of rational terms, and by the time his head had cleared enough for him to realize what he was doing, it had been too late.

Satisfied that he was comfortable—at least for the moment—Isabelle hurried off toward the kitchen, mumbling something to him about ‘staying put’. He sighed. He couldn’t move, so the question of staying put was a bit arbitrary, wasn’t it, and he couldn’t repress the soft groan that slipped from him as he gave up on the notion of making his body cooperate. Half-numb from the cold and completely exhausted, the effort he’d expended during the walk home was taking a huge toll on him, and even the welcome warmth of the living room did little to break through the permanent chill that had set into his very bones.

All in all, he supposed he was probably the sorriest sight, ever, and that just figured. He’d realized long ago that the scar tissue that covered his body also hindered his circulation, and he had to grit his teeth to keep them from chattering, unable to summon the strength to reach for the blanket that he kept neatly folded over the back of the sofa.

It was his own fault, wasn’t it? Anger had never been a good emotion for him, and while he had spent hundreds of years honing his ability to let things slide, in this one instance . . .

The simple memories of the questions and the accusations in Mamoruzen Inutaisho’s gaze were still enough to infuriate him, and while he could appreciate the need to protect one that he considered his own, that didn’t mean that Griffin was going to forget the confrontation, either. As far as Griffin was concerned, Mamoruzen hadn’t had any right at all in approaching Griffin in his own territory and demanding answers to anything, and Isabelle . . .

He’d been a little angry with her, too, at least at the beginning. After all, if it weren’t for her, there wouldn’t have been an intruder infringing on his domain, would there? If it hadn’t been for the look of absolute outrage on her face as she stepped between the two of them, he might have believed that she’d orchestrated the entire affair. Every time he’d thought about the pup’s brass, he grew just a little more irritated, and as his irritation grew, he’d found himself moving faster and faster through the trees. On the one hand, he’d been too angry to notice the first few twinges of pain that normally served as a warning that he needed to stop pushing himself. On the other . . . he’d shaken his head and kept moving. ‘ _To hell with the other hand_ ,’ he’d fumed . . .

As he’d stormed along the trail that normally soothed him, he’d come to realize on some level that Isabelle really hadn’t intend to do any such thing. She was too outspoken, too direct to lower herself to sneaking about and setting him up in such a fashion. He knew that, didn’t he? He knew _her_ , and while he wished he could say that she’d known, he knew deep down that she hadn’t. She had been to quick to jump between them; too flustered for her reaction to have been feigned. The truth of it was that she’d been just as upset in her own right as he was, hadn’t she, and that knowledge did serve to pacify him a little bit, though he would bite his tongue off before he _ever_ admitted why . . .

‘ _You forgave her for her part in it fairly easily, didn’t you? Interesting, Griffin . . . very interesting . . . Admit it, can’t you? You really don’t mind having her around . . . and you’re a sucker for those big golden eyes of hers . . ._ ’

Grimacing at the disquieting notion presented by his youkai blood, Griffin grunted as Charlie hopped onto the sofa only to flop down on his feet, sending another round of dull, aching pains shooting through his body. He groaned and tried to move his feet but gave up without much of a struggle. ‘”Get off me,” he muttered, loathing his inability to force the animal to comply. Froofie whined at him but wagged his tail once, twice, before letting his muzzle drop into the shallow vale between his paws. ‘ _She didn’t have that much of a ‘part’ in it_.’

‘ _I’m not saying that’s bad. You’re right, after all. She didn’t. Still_ . . .’

He narrowed his eyes and scowled at the dog that ignored him completely. ‘ _Still what?_ ’

‘ _Still . . . She’s getting to you, and don’t try to deny it. The reason you forgave her without question was because you don’t_ want _to blame her, in the first place_.’

‘. . . _No, the reason I forgave her is because she didn’t want him showing up and nosing around. She might be a lot of things, but she isn’t sneaky. She never has been_ . . .’

‘ _And you’re defending her_.’

He grunted but didn’t answer as the woman in question hurried back into the room with a steaming mug of tea and a couple slices of buttered toast and set them aside before turning to face him, the light of determination adding a glow to her . . .

He grunted, unable to reconcile what saw with what he knew. She looked completely normal at first glance, but she wasn’t; not at all. Shaking his head slightly, he gaped at her for several seconds before narrowing his eyes with an calculated scowl. All at once, he noticed a few things that he should have sensed but hadn’t before; things like her diminished scent, the conspicuous lack of her youki . . . and her eyes: they were blue. Her claws were gone, replaced by entirely normal looking human fingernails, and when she tucked her hair behind her ear, he wasn’t surprised to see the softly rounded edge. His scowl deepened as he struggled to sit up. She hurried forward to help him as he lifted his hand to fend her off before turning his glower on her. “You’re _human_ ,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

She shrugged offhandedly and crouched beside him, taking the mug and holding onto it until she was certain that he had a firm grip on it. “Yeah, it happens,” she said in a carefully contrived show of nonchalance.

He snorted, sipping the tea before he trusted himself to speak again. Torn between the irritation that he hadn’t noticed sooner and the sickened heaviness that weighed down on him that she would come after him in that state, Griffin latched onto the first of those emotions. Irritation was so much easier to deal with, wasn’t it, because the latter would only lead to more guilt; guilt over the idea that in her weakened state, anything could have happened. She could have gotten lost, she could have stumbled and fallen. Hell, he’d nearly crushed her, hadn’t he? Leaning on her for support the entire way home . . . ‘ _Damn it_ ,’ he thought as the sickened feeling spread, rose in his throat to choke him. ‘ _Damn, damn, damn_ , damn . . .’ So many things could have come to pass, and while he knew that he should be grateful that nothing had, he couldn’t help the bitter recrimination that his impulsive actions could have resulted in something far, far worse . . .

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” he demanded, his tone a little angrier than he’d intended.

“What do you mean, what did I think I was doing? I thought it’d be a wonderful time to take a walk in the woods,” she replied.

“Don’t be cute, Jezebel,” he growled, wishing that she’d be serious, just one time.

She shot him a brilliant smile. “You think I’m cute?”

He snorted loudly and pinned her with an irate sort of glower—highly ineffective since he was still unable to stand up. “Didn’t your parents ever tell you that you shouldn’t be out wandering around when you’re weak and vulnerable?”

Her laughter rang out as she waved a hand in a helpless sort of way. “I’m neither weak nor vulnerable, Dr. Marin,” she replied.

  
“Your amusement is sorely misplaced,” he growled.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sounding less-than-apologetic.   At least she _tried_ to curb her laughter, even if she did fail miserably.

“Oh? Then what do you call it?”

“Call what?”

He rolled his eyes. It occurred to him that she tended to be awfully flighty, given that she was a doctor . . . “Being human.”

“Oh, _that_ . . .” she drawled, sitting back on her heels and tapping her chin thoughtfully. “That’s just a minor inconvenience.”

“Minor inconvenience?” he echoed incredulously. “A mosquito bite in the summer is a minor inconvenience. A mile-long line at the checkout is a minor inconvenience. Being forced to sit in traffic during rush hour is a minor inconvenience. Being human when you’re normally hanyou is definitely _not_ a minor inconvenience.”

“And here I thought you didn’t care,” she teased.

Stifling a sigh and shaking his head since he had a feeling that she just wasn’t going to listen to reason, Griffin wrinkled his nose and snorted. “Go change before you freeze,” he muttered, glowering at the darkened patches on her pale blue jeans. “What’d you do? Roll around in the snow?”

Her smile was wan at best but genuine. “Worried about me, Dr. G? Careful or I’ll start to believe that you’re not as averse to me as you’ve led me to believe.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he grumbled, cheeks pinking despite his resolve not to blush. “You smell like a wet dog; that’s all.”

She giggled and shook her head as she reached for his hand and tugged. He gave a token resistance—he really didn’t have enough energy to offer much more, and in the end, he could only watch as she turned his hand over and gently grasped his wrist.   Flipping her arm to shake back her sleeve, she took his pulse and sighed. “Your pulse is a little erratic,” she said in an almost accusing tone.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he grumbled, finally managing to pull his arm away.

She spared a moment to eye him before standing up to retrieve the blanket and shake it out. The added warmth was welcome, and he finished off the tea while Isabelle dropped more wood on the fire. Scowling at his twitching legs, he gritted his teeth and willed them to be still. It didn’t work. The nerves and the muscles seemed to be acting according to laws of their own. It wasn’t often that his body reacted so badly, and normally only after he’d pushed himself beyond the limitations that he’d grown to live with. The aches that accompanied the overexertion seeped into his very bones; pain borne of loss and of fire and of blood . . .

The coolness of Isabelle’s hand startled him, and he jerked away. She didn’t comment, simply following him to feel his forehead, reaching down with her other hand to take the empty mug, her eyes clouded with obvious concern. “I’m fine,” he grumbled, knocking her hand away again.

“I think you should let me take a look at you,” she said slowly, ambivalently, as though she expected him to argue with her.

“No.”

She sighed and shook her head, her jaw tightening as an unmistakable stubbornness entered her gaze. “I’m going to go get you another mug of tea. Froofie, keep Griffin warm, will you?” she said at last. The idiot dog barked in reply. “Take your shirt off.”

Snorting loudly, he cast her a withering glower that had absolutely no effect since she was already disappearing into the kitchen and didn’t see it.

‘ _Oh, that’s just not happening_ ,’ he fumed as he struggled to sit up, to get to his feet. If he could just make it into his bedroom, he could lock her out, couldn’t he? There was no way, come hell or high water, that he was going to take _anything_ off, damn it . . .

His legs felt leaden, throbbing with the awful aches that emanated from the jagged scars that traversed his hips. Pushing himself into an upright position left him struggling to breathe, and he couldn’t make his legs move to save his soul. He couldn’t summon the strength necessary to pull his feet out from under Charlie, much less retreat to the sanctity of his bedroom for the duration . . .

She hurried out of the kitchen with the refilled mug in her hands and a suspect-looking black leather bag slung over her shoulder. A strange sort of trepidation prickled at his spine, and he slowly shook his head. He couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever was in that bag could not be good, and when she clapped eyes on him only to raise her eyebrows in silent question, her eyes darkening as she accepted whatever challenge she’d perceived, he couldn’t help the belligerent little frown that surfaced on his face—and he couldn’t help the unsettling feeling that he was little more than a cub in her eyes—and that he’d just been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar . . .

“You really must be out of sorts if you can’t take off your own shirt,” she commented rather mildly as she set the mug on the coffee table and lifted her leg to balance the black bag on her knee.

Eyeing her suspiciously as she rummaged around for . . . something . . . Griffin crossed his arms over his chest and pasted on his most formidable scowl. “Forget it, Jezebel. I’m on to you.”

Pausing with her hands stuffed inside the bag and peering down at him with her chin lowered, she blinked a few times as a smile quirked the corners of her lips. “As much as I’d love to see you without your shirt on, I assure you this is entirely on the up-and-up,” she teased.

Griffin snorted but couldn’t quite keep the hot flow of color from staining his cheeks. “I wasn’t thinking _that_ ,” he grouched. “Just goes to show that you have a dirty mind.”

“Clean is boring,” she maintained, tugging a lurid purple stethoscope from her bag of tricks. “Anyway, we can do this the easy way or the hard way, but one way or the other, I’m going to check you out.”

“Leave me alone, girly. I don’t need your diagnosis.”

“Griffin, you were out in the elements for hours, and I know damn well that you’re having some sort of trouble with your legs. Now let me give you a check up or—”

He narrowed his eyes. “Or what?” he rumbled.

She narrowed her eyes in return. “Or I’ll force you to.”

He couldn’t help the incredulous grunt at her claim. Pulling together what was left of his bravado, he pushed himself up and shook his head. “No.”

Isabelle opened her mouth to argue with him but snapped it closed and whipped around when the telephone rang. It took her a minute to locate it since she’d never paid much attention to it before. “You mean it wasn’t just for show?” she tossed over her shoulder as she strode over to answer it.

“Let it ring,” he growled, knowing damn well that there were only two people in the world who would bother to call him, and not wanting her Isabelle to speak to either of them.

She ignored him and grabbed the receiver, anyway. “Listen, you—” he began only to be cut off when she shushed him and pressed the receiver to her ear.

“Hello . . .? Me? Oh, I’m Isabelle . . .” She winked at him. He snorted. “Griffin?   Yes, of course he’s here. Let me take the phone to him . . .”

He almost breathed a sigh of relief when she started to amble toward him, figuring that wasn’t nearly as bad as he had thought it was going to be. Then she stopped in the center of the room just out of his reach and giggled. “You don’t say . . . he’s _really_ talked about me? Good things, I hope . . .”

He stifled a groan, slapping a hand over his eyes as he let his head fall against the back of the sofa.

“. . . Attean? That’s an unusual name. It sounds very exotic . . .”

‘ _This . . . can_ not _be happening_ ,’ Griffin told himself, splaying his fingers so that he could peer through them without lowering his hand.

“As beautiful as my voice? Isn’t that a little cliché, Attean-san?” She giggled. “Oh, no . . . he thinks I have a fat ass . . . Well, of course I do . . .”

Griffin groaned and smashed his fists into the cushions, swinging his legs off the sofa with a wince as Charlie hopped up and darted away, startled at the sudden movement. A low growl erupted in Griffin’s throat as he struggled to get to his feet, to no avail. An insular thought echoed through his head over and over: he had to get the telephone away from Isabelle before she thoroughly humiliated him.

“Just a moment, please.” Isabelle lowered the receiver and pinned him with a no-nonsense look. “And what do you think you’re doing? Lie back down. I’m not finished with you yet.”

The growl escalated into a low rumble as Griffin renewed his efforts, gritting his teeth against the thousand stabs of dulled pain that shot up his uncooperative legs. “Give me the damn phone,” he ground out, swiping his cheek against his shoulder impatiently to wipe away the sweat that accompanied his overexertion.

She clucked her tongue and shook her head but lifted the receiver back to her ear. “It was very nice chatting with you, but Griffin wants the telephone . . . Oh, no, the pleasure was all mine . . . Tell me, have you known Griffin very long?”

He managed to heft his ass off the sofa but groaned as he fell back, his breathing ragged and uneven, closing his eyes as the willed the room to stop spinning around him. He was going to make himself physically ill if he weren’t careful, and the idea of that was just completely unacceptable . . .

The thump of the phone receiver dropping into his lap registered in his brain though it took another moment to muster the strength to grope around for it since he wasn’t quite up to opening his eyes yet. Isabelle’s cool, soft palm pressed against his forehead as the sofa sagged just a little, enough to let him know that she’d sat down beside him. He tried to knock her hand away but only succeeded in waving his hand around in a vague sort of way. Cursing his physical limitations, he forced his eyes open, swallowing hard as bile rose in his throat and brought the receiver to his ear with a shaky hand, leaning away from Isabelle’s persistent touch.

“Call back later,” he bit out, wincing inwardly at the hollow, weary sound of his own voice.

“Ah, Griffin . . . you don’t sound like yourself.”

Griffin grunted, scowling at Isabelle as she leaned over him to grab the bag she’d set on the floor before answering the telephone. “It’s been—Hey! Get your fat ass off me, will you?” he growled, feebly pushing on Isabelle’s shoulder as she rose up on her knees to lean further in her attempt to snare the bag.

She shot him a somewhat droll glance over her shoulder and smiled just a little as she wiggled her backside in mocking contention. Stretching just a little bit more, she managed to catch the bag’s strap, and with a smug sort of grin, she pushed herself back up and off Griffin, though not before nearly smashing her breasts into his face in the process.

“She’s . . . _on_ . . . you?” Attean asked between strategically placed coughs.

Griffin opened and closed his mouth a few times, his throat gone dry as he tried not to stare at the parts of the woman that she’d so shamelessly flaunted before him. Even wrapped in the soft yarn of the pale blue angora sweater she wore, her curves were far too noticeable, and Griffin . . . Griffin was noticing, all right . . .

“Griffin . . .? Are you there?”

“Wh-what?” he said, his tone more than a little distracted as he watched Isabelle dig into the bag for something else he’d probably rather not see. His doubts were confirmed when she produced an ear thermometer and fiddled with the disposable cap.

Attean laughed. “I daresay that your Isabelle is a fascinating woman.”

That snapped him out of his reverie quickly enough, and he uttered an indelicate snort as his cheeks shot up in flames. The only saving grace in the situation was that Isabelle hadn’t noticed Griffin’s rapt attention, but Attean had, and in many ways, that was probably worse. “No, she’s not,” he growled, “and she’s definitely not ‘mine’.”

“I could be,” she interjected casually.

He snorted, stubbornly shaking his head. “No, you couldn’t.”

“All you have to do is say the word, Dr. G.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, hoping— _praying_ —that she’d get the hint and shut the hell up.

“I’m sure that Maria will look forward to meeting her,” Attean said.

Grimacing since Maria probably _would_ enjoy meeting Isabelle, Griffin uttered an exasperated growl. “Don’t drag her into this.”

Attean chuckled. “In any case, I wanted to let you know that I got a phone call yesterday. Seems that one of Zelig’s people is asking questions about your past.”

“Yeah, I—” Griffin sighed then grunted when Isabelle stuck the stupid thermometer into his ear without as much as a warning. “What are you doing?” he grouched, leaning to the side to avoid the ear probe.

Isabelle raised an eyebrow and leaned in close, grabbing his earlobe firmly and reinserting the thermometer. “What do you think? Now hold still.”

He narrowed his gaze but let her have her way since he knew damn well that she wasn’t going to give up and since it really wasn’t hurting him, even if he did find it slightly humiliating. Being talked to like he was a child . . . he had half a mind to—

“I told Myrna that I had not heard of you. I just thought you should know about this.”

“Myrna?” he echoed as the thermometer beeped softly in his ear. Isabelle sat back to read it while Griffin covered his ear and rubbed. “Myrna who?”

“Myrna Loy . . . She used to work for Jeb Christopher years ago—at least, she did until Zelig’s son took out the entire organization . . . The Onyx, they were called . . .”

“And now she works for _him?_ ”

Griffin could hear the rapid tapping of Attean’s pen against the desk. “Something like that, though from what I’ve heard, it wasn’t exactly voluntary . . . Anyway, I’m not certain she’s going to give up on this. We managed to bury all traces that would lead back to your past, but . . .”

Grunting his acknowledgement, Griffin rolled his eyes when Isabelle tugged his arm down, unbuttoning the wrist band to push his sleeve up out of the way before she wrapped the blood pressure cuff around it. “Cut it out, girly,” he growled, trying in vain to shake her off.

“I’m just checking your blood pressure,” she argued, frowning at his bared forearm.

He grimaced at the livid purple scars that she’d uncovered and tried to shake his sleeve back down. Isabelle reached out to stop him, snagging the blood pressure cuff under her arm as she pushed his sleeve higher. He opened his mouth to tell her once more to knock it off. Attean’s voice stopped him.

“Griffin? Are you listening to anything I’ve said?”

Heaving a sigh, Griffin caught the phone between his ear and shoulder so that he could try to fend Isabelle off. It almost worked—almost—but he was at his limit. Between the confrontation with Mamoruzen Inutaisho and the overexertion of his walk, he just didn’t have the strength to fight her, and with a mutinous glower designed to let her know just what he thought of her overbearing attention, he stuck his arm out, figuring that the sooner he let her do it, the sooner she’d leave him alone. “Never mind,” he said with a shake of his head. “I know who put her up to it.”

“So this isn’t a new development?”

“No.” Lowering the receiver for a moment, Griffin frowned pointedly at the device as Isabelle squeezed the bulb that inflated the cuff around his arm. “That’s not going to—”

The end of the cuff gave with a loud rip as the Velcro that held it in place tore open, and Isabelle jerked back in surprise. He was going to tell her that the cuff she was trying to use wasn’t nearly big enough. Sure, it probably fit most people, but Griffin was a bear-youkai, and because of that, he was just a little larger than most of her normal patients . . .

She grinned and pulled the cuff back into place, tugging the end a little bit tighter around his arm and pressing it into place a little more securely.

“You’re wasting your time if you think—”

She waved a hand and glanced at her watch. “Talk to your friend . . . it’s rude to ignore him.”

He snorted at the set-down, but couldn’t help but feel a little sanctified when the cuff ripped open once more. With a sigh, she gave up, pulling the device off his arm and stowing it back in the bag.

“And she doesn’t fear you, I take it?” Attean asked, his tone thoughtful— _too_ thoughtful.

Griffin made a face. “Hardly. She doesn’t have the common sense that God gave a billy goat.”

Attean chuckled. “Of course not. Come to think of it, neither did Maria.”

That didn’t sit well with Griffin, either. Attean had said once that he’d taken Maria to be his mate because she hadn’t listened the myriad of times that he’d told her that she didn’t want to be with someone like him—hanyou; not accepted by the youkai of the times, and certainly not accepted by the humans of his tribe. She had ignored his objections, and eventually Attean had caved in.

“Did you want to tell me anything else?” he asked, brushing aside the disquieting thoughts.

Attean chuckled. “No, but I have to admit; this is one of the most . . . enlightening conversations that we’ve had in a very long while.”

Griffin started to retort but was cut off when Isabelle tugged on the front of his shirt. She was frowning in intense concentration, working at unbuttoning his shirt with her far-too-nimble fingers. “What do you think you’re doing?” he snapped, jerking away from her and nearly falling off the sofa for his efforts as his face bloomed in a hideous shade of crimson.

“What does it look like? I told you, I’m going to give you an examination,” she replied calmly.

“The _hell_ you are,” he snarled. “I mean it!”

She shook her head slowly and gave him a look that pronounced her belief that he was being stubborn for no good reason. “The shy act is cute; really it is, but it’s not going to work. Now let me take your shirt off—”

“Keep your paws to yourself,” he growled, pushing her hands away for the second time. He dropped the phone without a second thought, too concerned with Isabelle’s insistence that he take off his shirt—something that he was not— _was not_ —going to cooperate with. “ _No_.”

“Don’t be silly!” she chided, leaning in to reach for his shirt again. He slapped her hands away, his scowl darkening, and if she had any common sense at all, she’d back off and leave well enough alone.

“I. Said. No,” he ground out, crossing his arms over his chest.

She sighed. “Look, Griffin, I’ve seen hundreds of naked men—maybe thousands. I’m a _doctor_ , remember?”

“I don’t care if you’re a holly, jolly elf! I’m not taking my shirt—or anything else—off, so forget it.”

Her lips twitched despite the hint of exasperation evident in the tightness lingering around her eyes. “It’s not a big deal,” she insisted with a sigh. “I’ve seen everything there is to see! Everything you’ve got, I’ve seen before, so—”

The low growl that had started just after her assertion that it was ‘not a big deal’ cut off abruptly as he shook his head again. “What part of ‘no’ wasn’t clear to you?”

“Do you have a penis?” she asked suddenly, eyebrows disappearing under her golden bronze bangs.

“Wh—I—You— _Of course_ I do!” he spat, his face flaming and unable to staunch the flow of blood that was gathering under his skin. “And my . . . _p-p-penis_ is none of your business!”

She waved a hand airily. “And I say if you’ve seen one penis, you’ve seen them all—and let me tell you, I’ve seen a _lot_ of penises . . . circumcised, uncircumcised . . . _flubbed_ circumcisions . . . big ones, little ones, ones that lean to the right, ones that lean to—”

“All right!” he snarled, voice rising as the explosion of blood in his face made his eyes feel as though they were going to pop right out of his skull. “I don’t care how many penises you’ve seen, Jezebel; you aren’t seeing _this_ one!”

“Oh, please! I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this! You act like you’ve never let a woman even look at your—” Cutting herself off abruptly, her eyes rounded as her mouth formed an incredulous ‘oh’, and she nodded ever so slowly. The surging blood felt like it was trying to seep out of Griffin’s very pores, and he snorted indelicately, avoiding looking directly at her. “That’s it, isn’t it? You never _have_ let a woman see your . . .” She gasped, hands flying up to cover her gaping maw as her eyes widened incredulously and she choked on a giggle. “You’re a _virgin!_ ”

And if he’d actually thought that he couldn’t be any more embarrassed, he learned in that instant that it was entirely possible. The furious surge of heat and color infiltrating his skin was rapidly approaching critical, and he growled in abject frustration, pushing her hands away again. “It’s none of your business,” he ground out, forcing himself to his feet despite the pain that reverberated through him. He managed to stumble a few steps before jamming his foot against the coffee table. Isabelle caught him before he fell and gently pushed him back down on the sofa, her amusement fading as quickly as it had surfaced, much to Griffin’s unabashed relief. He could hear the distinct sound of Attean’s muffled laughter, and with a menacing growl, he snatched up the receiver and clicked the button to disconnect the call.

“I wasn’t trying to embarrass you,” Isabelle said softly, shaking her head and heaving a sigh as though she were suddenly infinitely weary. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear that she actually sounded sincere. Too bad he was onto her and her wicked, wicked ways . . .

“Leave me alone,” he said, dropping the phone onto the floor and refusing to meet her stare.

“No, I mean it . . . I was just surprised; that’s all.”

“Surprised?” he growled. “Yeah . . . not that surprising, right? There’s not a woman in her right mind that would want to . . . It’s none of your business,” he stated once more. “Forget it.”

She was silent for a long minute, as though pondering the things he hadn’t meant to admit. He was almost convinced that she was going to remain silent. He was wrong about that, too. “It’s not true, you know,” she said quietly, drawing her feet up onto the sofa and wrapping her arms around her ankles.

“What’s not?” he demanded absently, almost grudgingly, rubbing his thighs as he willed the resounding pain to lessen.

She shrugged, and he felt her sigh more than heard it. More of a shrug than a breath, she dropped her chin onto her knees and smiled sadly. “What you said about women not wanting to be with you . . . it’s not true, at all.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. The acute embarrassment of her quiet admission was lost under the tide of color that had yet to recede.

Isabelle wasn’t finished. “I’d feel better if you’d just let me take a look at you, and don’t tell me that your legs aren’t bothering you because I won’t believe you . . . but if you don’t want me to give you a check up, then I’ll respect your wishes. Would you just . . .?”

“Just what?” he demanded a little sharper than he meant to when she trailed off.

She sighed, turning her face, resting her cheek on her knees as she stared into the dancing flames on the hearth. “Don’t try to hide it from me anymore . . . when you’re in pain . . . okay?”

Griffin finally looked at her and frowned when he noticed the unnatural brightness in her gaze. She wasn’t crying, no, but she was close, and with a start, he understood. She’d known all along, hadn’t she? All those times he’d tried to hide it from her, and she’d known . . .

He grimaced inwardly, wondering if he was really that bad in hiding his feelings.

‘ _You’re not bad at it, no, but don’t you understand? She senses it, even if she doesn’t see it . . . That’s how she knows_ . . .’

‘ _She . . . knows . . .?_ ’

‘ _Of course she does. It’d be weird if she didn’t._ ’

Griffin’s gaze shifted to the blazing fire, and he sighed, too. The silence that had fallen was not unkind, lulled by a certain resignation that he could only grasp on the basest of levels . . .

She sighed, too, and he could feel her quiet determination filling the air, ebbing and flowing like a viable thing.

“All right,” he agreed softly. “I . . . I . . . won’t . . .”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
> … _Jezebel_ …


	20. Winter Wonderland

“If you do it, you’ll be sorry.”

Isabelle hefted the snowball in her hand and shot Griffin her most winning smile. “How sorry, Dr. Marin?”

He snorted, still staring at her out of the corner of his eye. “Very.”

“Hmm, I’m not sure that’s enough to stop me,” she said as Froofie ran around her feet, yapping like crazy.

“Speaks volumes for your level of intelligence.”

She laughed. It was easy to laugh, she supposed. The sun was shining, and everything felt normal again—a welcome change from the worry that had plagued her for the last couple of days while Griffin had been recuperating. It hadn’t set well with her that he’d been hard-pressed to move off the sofa the day after she’d found him in the woods, but the more she tried to check him over, the more closed-off he became. In the end, she’d just done what she could by bringing him tea and making sure that he was comfortable enough—more difficult than it sounded since he hadn’t seemed to be able to get comfortable, at all.

His situation had really bothered her the following morning when he hadn’t seemed much better off. He’d even called in to cancel his class for the day—something that he never did. In the end, she’d called her father on her lunch break to ask him a few things.

“ _Baby Belle,” he’d greeted, his tone warm and welcome and strong. “I’m glad you called_.”

“ _Me, too, Papa . . . I wanted to ask you something . . .” she’d said, frowning thoughtfully at the half-cold cheeseburger that she didn’t really want_.

 _She heard the creak of his chair as he pushed away from his desk and paced around his study. In her mind’s eye, she could see him with his sleeve rolled up a couple of times, his hand stuffed casually into his pocket as he moved, his glasses reflecting the ambient light of his desk lamp, and she smiled wanly. How often had she played on the polished wood floor while he worked, while her mother read a magazine or talked quietly, recanting the events of the day for her mate’s delectation? He’d paused often to set his work aside, to smile indulgently at his wife and daughter. If she’d fallen asleep on the floor once, she’d done it a million times with Alexandra curled up beside her while Kichiro and Bellaniece worked_.

“ _You sound serious . . . all right_.”

 _She sighed, propping her elbow on the desk and rubbing her forehead with a weary hand. “I wondered . . . how is it possible for a youkai to scar?_ ”

“ _Youkai scarring?” he echoed, his tone a little surprised by her question. “Huh . . . that’s pretty rare_ . . .”

“ _I know_.”

 _He let out a deep breath. “I guess in theory, a youkai could scar in a few different ways . . . an infusion of spiritual power might react much like a cauterizing agent if the person who inflicts the injury has that sort of ability . . . If the wound was inflicted by a youkai whose strength significantly surpassed that of the one who was wounded . . .” His voice grew muffled as though he were covering his mouth with his hand. “Possibly if the youkai doesn’t feel he deserves to heal, that would do it, too_ . . .”

“ _How can that be?” she asked as her stomach lurched unpleasantly. She didn’t like any of the ideas presented, and yet who would know better than then acclaimed youkai researcher, Izayoi Kichiro_?

 _He chuckled a little sadly. “Baby, you know better than most that there is a very strong connection between the psyche and the physical body of the youkai. That is why there’s no way to stop the physical deterioration of a youkai who loses his or her mate . . . The body just loses the will to fight regardless of how desperately the youkai might wish to survive_.”

 _And she knew that, too, didn’t she? If a youkai’s true mate died or rejected them, it always—_ always _—resulted in death. Her grandfather, as much as she adored him, had almost lost Gin that way. It’d taken so long for them to admit the truth to one another that Gin had nearly died . . . Still, that really didn’t have a thing to do with Griffin’s scarring, but she’d wanted answers . . . “Papa . . .” she began slowly, carefully striving for a calm, a detachment, that she certainly wasn’t feeling_.

“ _Mmm?_ ”

 _She licked her lips and sat back in her chair, letting her gaze wander out the window at the gently falling snow outside. “Scar tissue . . . if it’s bad enough, it could hinder certain functions, couldn’t it? Circulation or even gross motor skills . . .?_ ”

“ _Well, sure . . . if the scarring is bad enough and in the wrong places, it could do some pretty excessive damage_.”

 _She sighed again, nodding slowly, as though she thought that he could see her. “I thought so,” she allowed. “But that could be fixed, couldn’t it? Reconstructive surgery . . .?_ ”

“ _In theory it could,” he agreed. “Then again, it also depends on the severity of the scarring and the initial scope of the damage that was done, to start with. Why the sudden interest in youkai scarring?_ ”

 _Though he’d asked the question mildly enough, she didn’t miss the hint of forced nonchalance in his tone, either, and she cleared her throat. “I just wondered . . . for a patient_ . . .”

“ _A patient, huh?” He sighed. “Gotta tell you, though . . . the surgery can be damn expensive. If the scar tissue is really deep, it can take a number of surgeries to correct it_.”

“ _I thought as much,” she allowed. “But if the scar tissue is old . . .? What then?_ ”

“ _How old are we talking?_ ”

“ _I . . . I don’t know . . .” Tapping her claws on the desk, she slowly shook her head. “I think he’s had it awhile . . . It’s just . . . it’s bad_ . . .”

“ _How bad?_ ”

 _Letting out her breath in a rush, she sat up a little straighter and shoved the cheeseburger into the trashcan beside the desk. “Bad enough to give him problems . . . Messing up his circulation and drastically affecting his mobility_.”

 _Kichiro cleared his throat as he considered what she’d said. “So it’s bad,” he murmured. “It’d be hard to say without seeing him personally, but if it’s bad enough that it’s affecting those things, then I’d say it should have been taken care of a long time ago. How did this guy get the scars?_ ”

“ _I . . . I don’t know,” she admitted. “He, um . . . he won’t tell me_.”

 _His silence was telling, and Isabelle grimaced. Cursing herself for letting that much slip, she wasn’t at all surprised when her father finally spoke.   “A patient, you say_.”

“. . . _Sort of_ . . .”

“ _Mmm_.”

“ _Papa, it’s not like that, honestly . . . I just want to help him_.”

“ _Why don’t you tell me what really happened?_ ”

And she had, at least for the most part. She left out a few things, like Gunnar’s interference since it wouldn’t really do any good to dwell on. Kichiro had ascertained enough to get an accurate picture of the situation, anyway, and that was really all that mattered. As it was, he wouldn’t really be able to give her any solid advice unless he actually examined Griffin, and that, unfortunately, was something that just wasn’t going to happen.

She’d been surprised, all things considered, when she’d headed outside awhile ago to shovel the driveway behind her car. Griffin had followed her, obviously feeling much better, which relieved Isabelle more than she could credit. With a grunt and mumbling under his breath about worthless girlies who didn’t know the proper way to hold a shovel, he’d taken it from her and nudged her aside to finish the task despite her worries that he would aggravate his joints again. She’d cautiously voiced her concern one time and had gotten a narrow glare for her efforts.

But he seemed to be all right, she allowed as she watched him finish clearing away the snow. He knocked the end of the shovel against the now-cleared driveway and lumbered off to put it away as Isabelle set her snowball aside and scooped up another huge glob.

The snowball whizzed through the air seemingly out of nowhere, smacking into Isabelle’s arm as she let out a small shriek of surprise. Glancing around quickly, she spotted him—Griffin—leaning against the side of the house with an entirely smug look on his face. He wasn’t smiling, no, but he didn’t have to. His eyes were positively sparkling, and just for a moment, Isabelle couldn’t move; could only stare as the earth spun out of her control.

‘ _Devastating_ ,’ she mused absently, unable to lend any real coherence to her jumbled thoughts. The way the sunlight reflected off the snow and pooled in his eyes . . . the wind blowing his shaggy bangs, lifting it on invisible fingers . . . the slight pinkness in his cheeks, undoubtedly from the chill in the air . . . and just this once, he didn’t seem to be uncomfortable with himself or with the world at large. No, he was a beautiful creature, as untouchable as he was mysterious, and Isabelle . . . She loved him, didn’t she? Loved him more than she’d ever loved anything, ever . . .

“You’re supposed to dodge it, Jezebel,” he murmured, his voice carrying to her despite the trademark quietness of his voice.

“W-was I?” she asked, her tone breathless as she stared at him.

“Yes, you were,” he maintained, pushing himself away from the building and making his way along the cleared driveway toward the mailbox.

‘ _It’s just not fair_ ,’ she thought with a soft sigh as she watched him go. ‘ _He shouldn’t be able to get to me so easily, should he?_ ’

‘ _And that’s a bad thing?_ ’ her youkai demanded. ‘ _You’ve got to be kidding . . . it’d be weird if he didn’t make you feel that way, you know. Lusting after the man you want to have as your mate isn’t necessarily a bad thing_ . . .’

‘ _My mate_ ,’ she thought with a secretive little smile. ‘ _I like that_ . . .’

‘ _Yes, well, don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched. You’ve still got to convince him that he wants that, too_.’

‘ _Oh, I don’t know . . . I think he’s coming around_ ,’ she mused as she took careful aim.

‘ _Now, this isn’t a good idea_ . . .’

‘ _This is a_ great _idea . . . after all, he did it first, didn’t he?_ ’

With that thought, she let the snowball fly. Griffin’s head snapped to the side when the snowball struck him on the arm, his gaze moving deliberately slowly as he lifted his eyes to meet hers. His expression was inscrutable despite the heightened glow in his eyes, and she felt her breath catch yet again.

Stuffing the mail into the pocket of the oversized red and black quilted flannel jacket he wore, he paused long enough to scoop up a handful of snow—much, much more than she could have picked up with one hand—and packed the snow between his huge palms. Isabelle was faster, though, snatching up the snowball she’d already made and whipping it at him before he got a chance to retaliate.

It hit him in the middle of his chest as he stalked toward her with the light of mayhem bright in his eyes. He didn’t say a word as he kept moving toward her.

With a yelp, she turned on her heel to dash away but not before Griffin’s snowball hit her in the leg. If he’d packed it very much, she couldn’t tell because it broke apart easily on impact as she twisted her torso to heave another snowball at him. He smacked it away like he would a fly in the summer, and somewhere along the way he’d managed to scoop together another massive handful of snow.

“Bad aim, Jezebel?” he taunted.

She wrinkled her nose and stooped to gather more ammunition.

“Here,” he said, digging a bright red envelope out of his pocket. “This is for you . . . who’d you give my address to?”

Sparing the envelope little more than a cursory glance as Griffin turned it over to examine the handwriting, Isabelle took the opportunity to slip behind him. Reaching up to drop a chunk of snow neatly down the back of his shirt, she laughed and darted away as Griffin swung his arm to catch her.

“What’s the matter, Pooh Bear? Jezebel a little too quick for you?” she goaded.

He narrowed his gaze and uttered a curt grunt, catching the envelope between his teeth so he could shake the snow out of his shirt. Satisfied that he’d gotten it out, he packed the snow he still held tightly before whipping it at her. She barely had time to raise her arms before the snow smacked into her. If she had been a little slower, she’d have ended up with a mouthful of snow for her efforts . . .

“Oh, so that’s how you want to do this,” she said, lowering her arms and cocking an eyebrow at him as she slowly bent down to scoop up another handful of snow.

“That’s what happens when you don’t play nice,” he informed her, pulling the envelope out of his mouth and sticking a corner of it into the snow as he smashed together another snowball.

“Bring it, big boy,” she retorted.

“I think I might,” he grumbled, shoving the new snowball at her without straightening his back.

She dodged that one easily enough and sprinted toward him, catching the neck of his shirt and shoving the snow down his back yet again, only this time, she laughed loudly, smashing the snow under his shirt and coat as he growled and tried to jerk away from her. She held on tight, and he retaliated, catching her ankle and jerking her feet out from under her before straddling her to pin her in place. “Griffin!” she squeaked, shoving at him in a vain effort to dislodge him. Her short coat rode up; her back was fast numbing from the snow beneath her. Griffin shot her a droll sort of look and leaned down, extending his arms out at his sides, only to bring them up, smashing the snow around her like he was going to bury her.

“Never learned that you ought not to tease a bear?” he asked as he scooped more snow together with his arms.

“It’s _cold!_ ” she protested, unable to keep from giggling as he packed snow in around her.

“Good. Maybe next time you’ll think twice before deciding you can take me on.”

“But you started it!”

“That’ll never hold up in a court of law.”

Her laughter died as quickly as it had come, though, when he rose up on his knees and leaned forward, so intent on burying her that he wasn’t really paying attention to anything else. Staring up at him, she gasped softly. His face was mere inches from hers though his gaze was trained above her head as he supported his weight on one hand and piled more snow around her.

He was close enough that she could feel the waves of heat radiating through his clothes, close enough that she could feel the welcome caress of his youki on hers. The cold seemed to fade from her mind as she stared at him, as she drank in the sight of him, committing this moment to memory. The heady wash of emotion that coursed through her made her grit her teeth to keep from moaning, and as if he could sense the unsettled feelings inundating her, he dropped his gaze suddenly to meet hers.

The determination in his eyes faded slowly, only to be replaced by a troubled sort of light that whispered to her soul, and while she knew that he really didn’t understand exactly what he was feeling, she could sense that he realized on some level that she felt it, too.

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the almost desperate action, and he shook his head slightly, as though he were trying to clear his mind. His dark eyes glowed with open admiration—something he normally sought to hide from her—as he licked his lips, as he uttered a sound: not quite a groan, not quite a growl—a possessive sound, wholly foreign coming from Griffin, and completely welcome to her. Closing her eyes as a tumultuous tremor raced up her spine, she lifted her hand to touch his right cheek, marveled at the smoothness of his skin despite the light sprinkling of stubble that had already started to grow back after his morning shave, and though he stiffened for a moment, he didn’t jerk away, and she couldn’t help the trembling smile that quirked on her lips as he unconsciously leaned into her touch.

‘ _Careful, Bitty . . . be careful_ ,’ her youkai whispered.

Savoring the complete acceptance, she was loathe to acknowledge the interference. ‘. . . _Careful?_ ’

‘ _He’s still not ready_ ,’ her youkai went on. ‘ _If you press him; if you push him_ . . .’

She reluctantly opened her eyes, and stifled a sigh. Griffin had his eyes closed, his expression a heartbreaking mix of contentment and longing, and she bit her lip. As much as she wished it were otherwise, her youkai was right . . . Though he might welcome her attention at the moment, in the end, it’d only serve to make him raise his defenses that much more, wouldn’t it?

It was enough to make her want to scream, really. They were close—so close, and . . . and she sighed. “Griffin?” she said softly, letting her hand fall away as she told herself that she really was doing the right thing.

He didn’t respond right away, and she had a feeling that he really hadn’t heard her. “Griffin,” she said again, a little louder this time though not by much.

He finally opened his eyes very slowly, his gaze unfocused and a little bemused. She forced a smile, willing her pulse to slow, willing her body to relax before he discerned exactly how badly she wanted him, but she had to clear her throat before she could speak. “It’s starting to snow again.”

He blinked as his eyebrows drew together in a scowl, and as his eyes cleared, she wasn’t surprised to see a tide of color blossom in his cheeks. He jerked upright, as though he’d been scalded. The sudden loss of his body heat hit her hard, and she shivered.

He snorted, his scowl darkening as the ruddy hue deepened, and he pushed himself to his feet before grabbing her hands and pulling her up, too. He let go about the moment she was standing, though, and she stifled another sigh as he shook his head, mumbling about getting inside before she froze.

She hung back as he trudged toward the porch, watching him go as he carefully stomped his feet to knock off the excess snow. The memory of the expression on his face haunted her, hanging onto the edges of her mind as she shook her head and tried to tell herself that she’d done the right thing. It was one thing to know that her youkai had been right. It was another thing, entirely, to convince herself that she really didn’t need to scream in frustration.

‘ _Just remember, Bitty. Griffin’s worth it; you know he is_.’

‘ _Yeah_ ,’ she allowed but couldn’t quite muster the enthusiasm that she supposed her youkai wanted from her. ‘ _Yeah, he is. Of_ course _he is_ . . .’

Spotting the scarlet envelope still sticking in the snow a few feet away, Isabelle let out a deep breath and stooped to pick it up. She didn’t recognize the handwriting, and she hadn’t given Griffin’s address to anyone, and even then, the card was addressed only to Isabelle—no last name—care of Dr. Griffin Marin. In fact, he went over to her house at least every couple of days to grab her mail so that no one grew suspicious unless they were watching her home.

With a mental shrug, she turned the envelope over and slipped her claw into the miniscule opening and sliced it open and pulled out the simple yet elegant Christmas card . . .

 

 

‘ _Dear Isabelle_ ,

‘ _Hello, and please forgive my forward greeting. My husband, Attean told me of you but sadly did not have your last name. My name is Maria, and I am one of Osezno’s oldest friends. Attean says that you are staying with Osezno as his guest, and while this news is surprising, I cannot say it is unwelcome, either_ . . .’

 

 

Her eyes widened as she read the letter. She supposed that was normal enough, considering Griffin never talked about anyone, and while she wasn’t certain, the way Maria referred to this ‘Osezno’, Isabelle guessed that the woman was talking about Griffin . . .

 

 

‘ _I wanted to take the time to write to you in hopes that you can help him where Attean and I failed. That is to say, we tried to show Osezno many times that the way to live was not in dwelling in a past that cannot be changed, but in looking for the beauty of the future. Though he never told us exactly what happened, we understood that it was the past that burdened him, and I’m ashamed to say that while we did what we could to heal his broken body, there wasn’t much we could do to heal his broken spirit. Maybe this is something you can do. Attean tells me that Osezno talks to you in such a way that he has never heard before. This is good; very good, and I am glad that he has found someone after all_.

‘ _He is precious to us, you see. He is the brother that Attean never had, and he is the prodigal son that I’ll never understand. I hope that after the passage of time that the nightmares that plagued him have stopped. I’ve always believed that they would if he would only open up and speak of them to someone; someone that he can trust_ . . .’

 

 

She frowned and bit her lip, brushing aside the snow that had fallen over Maria’s neat script. ‘ _Nightmares . . .?_ ’ she mused absently. ‘ _Does he still have those . . .?_ ’

A sudden chill ran up her spine, and Isabelle sighed. Why was it that she knew—just _knew_ —that these nightmares that Maria spoke of hadn’t really gone away?

 

 

‘ _I hope that you can be patient with him, and that is the true reason I write this. I know better than anyone, just how stubborn Osezno can be. It is one of the things that I have always admired about him, for it has served him well in many things, but there are times when it is to his detriment, too. He wants to protect you, and that is something that Attean has always said is the gravest of vows to their kind. If this is true, then I am glad. It means that Osezno has finally found someone he can believe in, even if he doesn’t really believe in himself. While I wonder if this makes sense to you, it is something that I’ve always hoped he’d find_. 

‘ _I suppose that in the end, all I really wanted to say was that I hope you take good care of him. He’s been alone for far too long_.

‘ _All the best_ ,  
‘ _Maria_.’

 

 

Letting the card fold closed over her thumb, Isabelle pondered Maria’s words. Who was she, and what sort of relationship did Attean and she really have with Griffin? She talked about him in terms that made him sound like a mere child, and yet she knew better, didn’t she? He’d lived a long time, and while she didn’t know exactly how long that was, she did understand that he was probably older than even her grandfather, Cain . . .

‘ _Nightmares_ ,’ she thought suddenly, frowning at the card she still held. Would he tell her if she asked him? She sighed. Probably not . . .

‘ _It means that Osezno has finally found someone he can believe in, even if he doesn’t really believe in himself_. . .’

Wading through the two feet of snow that blanketed the ground, Isabelle trudged toward the house. Sure, she didn’t know what sort of things lingered out just out of his vision; didn’t begin to comprehend the things that still had the power to hurt him, and yet . . . and yet she couldn’t give up, either, could she? And if Maria was to be believed, then maybe she really was the only one who could help him . . .

The house was silent as she closed the door and leaned against the wall to tug off her boots, setting them carefully in the shallow plastic towel-lined tub that Griffin had set out when the first snow had started to fall. It wasn’t the first time she’d taken note of the almost compulsive neatness that he tended to ascribe to, and it made her smile. He’d already sopped up whatever mess he’d left; the softly shining wood floor was clean and dry, and pulling the small rag towel off the rack behind the door, she made quick work of cleaning up the few puddles of water left after she’d removed her boots, too.

She heard Froofie whining and ducked around the corner of the entryway to see why and smiled. The dog was lying on the floor outside the closed door to Griffin’s ‘lair’ with his muzzle in his paws, looking completely abandoned and inconsolable. It was easy to tell that the man in question had obviously disappeared down there and hadn’t taken the dog with him . . .

Turning back to the entry, she made quick work of hanging her coat on the hook beside Griffin’s flannel jacket and grabbed the card from the hallway table before padding through the house to try to console her dog.

‘ _Froofie isn’t nearly as glad to see me as he used to be_ ,’ she thought as she dropped the card onto the dining room table. Lifting his head, he thumped his tail a couple of times against the floor but didn’t stand up to greet her. Little by little, Griffin was stealing her dog, she supposed, but since it was Griffin, she figured that was all right, too, and she smiled as she scratched Froofie behind the ears and stood up. “Maybe if you knocked, he’d let you in,” she stated.

Froofie cocked his head to the side as though he were considering Isabelle’s claim and slowly pushed against the floor with his front paws, rear end rising in the air as a huge yawn forced his mouth wide. Stretching done, he scratched at the door once, twice, and sat down to wait.

It worked like a charm. She heard Griffin’s heavy footsteps on the old wooden steps seconds before the door slowly opened wide enough to let Froofie in while Isabelle covered her lips with her hand to keep from giggling out loud. He peered around the door before closing it, pausing for a moment as his gaze flickered over her, and she wasn’t entirely surprised when his cheeks pinked then reddened though he didn’t turn and run away. “The notes are on my desk,” he muttered, scowling at the floor with the adorable tint of a blush still staining his cheeks. “Check them over, will you? There are a couple places where you need to figure out which translation is right before I can move on.”

“Okay,” she agreed amiably. “Griffin?”

He stopped and hesitantly met her gaze, his scowl deepening as more color infiltrated his skin. “What?”

Wisely holding back her amusement, Isabelle shrugged and tried to look innocent.   “Are you sure I can’t join you down there?”

He snorted. “Yes,” he said, pulling the door closed behind himself.

She listened to him descending the stairs and giggled. As predictable as ever, certainly, and yet she just loved to hear the responses she knew she was going to get.

Heaving a sigh as she glanced around the otherwise empty house, she bit her lip as a sense of loneliness swept over her. It wasn’t that she constantly needed to have someone there, no, but the house never ceased to feel so vacant whenever Griffin was closeted away in the basement . . . and maybe she was just needing a semblance of reassurance that he really wasn’t going to close her off again after the snowball fight outside . . . Either way, she couldn’t help the feeling of melancholy that clung to her when she stared at the closed basement door.

Another thought struck her as she stood, staring at the closed basement door. It’d never work, and she knew it wouldn’t. That didn’t mean that she should just give up, did it?

The humor of the situation didn’t go unnoticed, either, as she bit her lip and slipped over to the door.

‘ _You’ve got to be crazy if you think this might actually work_ ,’ her youkai pointed out.

‘ _Don’t be so pessimistic . . . and even if it doesn’t work, it’s worth a try, don’t you think?_ ’

‘ _If you say so, Bitty . . . I’ll give you points for effort_ . . .’

She couldn’t contain the smile that broke over her face as she raised her hand and scratched on the door. ‘ _It worked for Froofie, didn’t it . . .?_ ’

‘ _You’re not your dog_.’

She laughed and scratched once more for good measure, her smile widening when she heard the tell-tale creak of the steps moments later, and she stepped back to wait.

He did open the door and peer out at her, his expression unchanging as he slowly shook his head. Lifting his chin, he deliberately sniffed the air and snorted. “I don’t smell any testosterone, so forget it, Jezebel,” he said.

She tried not to smile. “I should hope not.”

That earned her a definitive grunt. “I told you, right? This is man’s domain,” he stated flatly.

“I know,” she agreed, clasping her hands behind her back.

“And you’re not a man,” he reasoned.

“Not the last time I checked, no . . .”

“So go away . . . find something . . . girly to do,” he grumbled.

“Okay, okay,” she hurried to say before he managed to close the door. “I’ll leave you alone, I swear, if you tell me what you’ve got down there.”

Griffin glanced over his shoulder, slowly shaking his head. “I’ve told you before; it’s none of your business.”

“Dead bodies?” she deadpanned.

“. . . Yes.”

“Nosy wenches?”

“. . . Yes.”

“Some sort of voodoo haven where you’re gathering your legions of undead minions?”

“Absolutely.”

“Can I help?”

“No.”

She broke into a smile. She couldn’t help it. Something about Griffin, standing in the doorway with a thoughtful scowl on his face as he readily agreed to the outrageous things she was saying . . . “Oh, come on, Griffin! You can’t keep me in the dark!” she complained.

“I can, and I am, and you can like it,” he informed her, a hint of smugness seeping into his expression as he crossed his thick arms over his chest and nodded.

“But that’s just mean,” she told him, stomping her foot.

He raised an eyebrow at the perceived childishness in her reaction. “I beg to differ. ‘Mean’ is insisting that I tell you things that I obviously don’t want to tell you,” he pointed out.

“That’s just curiosity,” she retorted. He looked completely nonplussed, and Isabelle figured it was time to try a different tactic . . . “I have an idea! Why don’t we go for a nice, long walk?”

“It’s snowing,” he reminded her. “Twelve to eighteen inches by night, they said on the news.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I could . . . I could make tea for you,” she offered.

“Already had some while you were him-hawing around in the yard.”

“Oh, come on, Griffin! What do you really have down there?” she demanded.

No doubt about it, he actually looked completely amused though he didn’t quite smile, she figured. Too bad she wasn’t. Griffin’s mysteries were enough to make her want to scream . . .

“It’s a secret,” he maintained.

Isabelle heaved a sigh, wrapping her arms over her stomach as she tried not to pout and failed. Shifting her gaze to the side, she remembered the Christmas card that had come in the mail, and very slowly, very deliberately, she reached out to snag it off the dining table as a calculated grin surfaced on her face. “I’ll make you a deal, big guy,” she said, her voice dropping to a husky purr.

His eyes darkened in complete distrust as he carefully regarded her. “A deal,” he echoed with a shake of his head. “I don’t think so . . .”

“Hear me out, Griffin,” she went on, making a deliberate show of tapping the edge of the card against her chin. “Aren’t you even remotely interested in who this card is from?”

“Not really,” he replied as he started to pull the door closed once more.

“Oh? Then you don’t mind that Maria sends her regards.”

That stopped him dead in his tracks, and she supposed she ought to feel at least a little bad for springing it on him like that, but it had the desired effect: he slowly pivoted on his heel, leveling an inscrutable eye on her as he crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his gaze from her to the card and back again. “Regards, huh?”

She nodded, deliberately making a show of opening the card and pretending to read while paying close attention to Griffin’s movements lest he should decide that he wanted to snatch it out of her hands. “So you’ve known her a while, I take it? She’s Attean’s mate?”

He grunted—as close to a ‘yes’ as she was like to get out of him. “All right,” he gave in, albeit with complete ill-grace. “Let me have it.”

Shifting her eyes to meet his, she smiled sweetly without making a move to comply with his obvious demand. “Tell me what’s in your basement.”

His growl was full of irritation if not even a little belligerent. “Fat chance, Jezebel.”

“Oh, that’s too bad, Griffin,” she remarked, closing the card and pursing her lips in a pouting moue.

“Hand it over.”

“Your basement.”

He snorted indelicately and shook his head. “The card.”

“You know, it occurred to me, Griffin Marin . . .”

“What?”

She shrugged offhandedly and slowly paced across the floor. “You’ve got secrets in your basement, right? Then this card . . .” She paused for dramatic effect and glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes. “This is going into . . . _my_ ‘basement’.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously, cheeks reddening though she couldn’t rightfully tell if it was irritation or embarrassment that sparked the vapid blush that enveloped his countenance, and it grew darker when she slipped the card down the front of her shirt with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “If you want it, come and get it,” she goaded.

He opened his mouth and snapped it closed a few times, looking for all intents and purposes like a fish out of water. She could see it in his eyes: he desperately wanted to know what was written in the card, but something stopped him from asking—that old stubbornness, she supposed. She almost laughed out loud—almost. Caught between the wish that he would tell her what he was keeping from her and the nearly overwhelming desire to demand answers to the questions that Maria’s note had brought to mind, she held her ground. “ _Jezebel_ ,” he finally muttered, glowering at her for a long moment before turning around and heading for the basement once more.

“Griffin,” she called after him, stopping him yet again before he could make his escape.

Letting out his breath in a frustrated rush, he didn’t turn to face her though he did stop walking away. “What?”

She bit her lip, wondered if she really ought to give voice to the question that was foremost in her mind. It had been since she’d read the card—the question that she couldn’t really get out of her mind until she got an answer from Griffin . . . She’d seen it in his eyes far too many times, hadn’t she? That sense of foreboding, as if he thought that he wasn’t worthy of anyone’s time or attention; as if he believed that he wasn’t worth a damn thing in the end . . . Rubbing a hand idly over the smoothness of her blouse and the card below it, she drew a deep breath as Maria’s words flashed through her mind yet again . . .

‘ _I hope that after the passage of time that the nightmares that plagued him have stopped_. . .’

“Maria said that you used to have nightmares,” she said softly, lowering her voice as if it would lessen the impact of her words. She didn’t miss the way his back stiffened; didn’t mistake the tension that rose and mounted as he clenched his hands into tight fists at his sides. “You still do, don’t you?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer for several moments, and Isabelle was starting to think that he wasn’t going to. The ticking of the clock on the mantle in the other room resounded in her ears, louder than thunder, and she had to wonder if confronting him over the nightmares hadn’t been a huge mistake . . . “No,” he finally stated flatly. “No . . .”

She watched him retreat in silence, his back straight and proud, and she knew deep down that he wanted her to believe him; wanted her to think that whatever it was that used to haunt him was gone forever because he had willed it to be so. He wanted her to think that there was nothing in Maria’s words, or maybe he just wanted to believe it, himself.

As the door closed softly behind him, she let her breath out in a rush, sinking into the nearest chair as she let her head fall into her hands and sighed.

Too bad she didn’t believe him, after all . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Osezno_** _: Bear cub in Spanish … Maria’s “name” for Griffin_. 
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _Nightmares_ …


	21. Puppies and Kittens

Griffin glanced at the clock for the seventh time in fifteen minutes and shook his head, snorting inwardly at his perceived lack of discipline as he glanced at the telephone and gritted his teeth, telling himself yet again that it wasn’t that late and that he didn’t really need to worry about Isabelle and where she was—or wasn’t.

It was nearly seven o’clock—well past the time when she normally got home from work.

 _‘Relax, Griffin . . . she probably stopped by the store for something or other. You know how she is_.’

He snorted indelicately and forced his attention back on the notes that he’d been staring at without making much progress for the last couple of hours—about the time that she should have busted through the door with the normal commotion that seemed to accompany her everywhere she went.

‘ _I’m not . . . worried_ ,’ he grumbled. ‘ _I’m_ hungry _, and she’s not here to make dinner yet_.’

His youkai voice judiciously decided to ignore the ridiculousness of his claim since he’d been fending for himself for too many years to count for his excuse to hold water.

‘ _You could call the clinic if you’re worried about your . . . dinner_. . .’

He snorted. He didn’t need to do that, either, damn it. No, everything was fine— _just_ fine—and it’d be even more . . . ‘ _fine’_ . . . when that thoughtless little girl walked through the door . . .

Heaving a sigh, he pushed away from the desk and stomped over to the window, scowling outside at the darkened landscape. It had been getting worse of late, the feeling that something was moving in the shadows. Over the centuries that had comprised his life thus far, he’d learned over time to trust that instinct; to rely on it even if he didn’t think there was anything to be worried about. No, he’d learned long ago that if something really bothered him, he had reason to be worried . . .

He stood still for a long time, unconsciously willing the brightness of her headlights to split the night. The longer he watched for her, the more his mind conjured twisted scenarios—scenarios that were too impossible to be believed and yet . . . and yet he couldn’t quite help himself, either. It had gotten warm enough to melt some of the snow blanketing the road, but as evening gave way to night, the temperature had dropped, too, resulting in a thick sheet of ice that could have easily manipulated that little toy she called a car . . . She could have been abducted by a mad Santa outside the store, or . . . or she could have been found out, couldn’t she? If he was right and if this Eaton Fellows person had traced the research to her . . . He didn’t hear the low growl that rattled from him, didn’t feel his claws dig into his palms, didn’t smell the copper tinge of blood—his blood—that tainted the air . . . The worse the images in his head became, the more irritated he grew, and the more irritated he grew, the more he wanted to hurt . . . _something_ . . .

‘ _Get a hold of yourself, Griffin . . . call her cell phone. She’ll answer it_.’

The growl cut off abruptly as Griffin’s chin snapped up. He hadn’t thought of that, had he? He hadn’t wanted to call the clinic, no . . . He wasn’t overly fond of the idea of talking to anyone that he didn’t absolutely have to. Still . . .

‘ _Admit it; you’re worried about her_.’

He snorted and grimaced as he held up his hands and blinked at the tiny ribbons of blood seeping from the lacerations on his palms. ‘ _I’m not_ ,’ he argued stubbornly, stomping off toward the bathroom to wash his hands. ‘ _She’s just too helpless to take care of herself; that’s all_ ,’ he rationalized.

‘ _Yeah? Well, helpless or not, you’re worried about her_.’

He snorted again but didn’t argue it.

He’d just shut off the faucet when he heard the click of the front door closing, and without bothering to do more than shake his hands, he stomped out of the bathroom and down the short hallway in time to glower at Isabelle as the maddening woman slowly shuffled into the living room. “Just where the _hell_ have you been?” he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest and glowering at her, daring her to lie.

The smile that was on her face faded quickly as she met Griffin’s darkened gaze, and she took a step toward him but stopped when he uttered a terse growl—a warning—and she sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said though she didn’t sound like she really was in his opinion . . . “I got held up at work, and then I stopped by the store to pick up a few things for dinner.”

He grunted, narrowing his eyes since she wasn’t carrying any bags. “Groceries, huh?”

“Oh, those are still in the car,” she said, waving a hand dismissively.

He nearly growled in complete frustration but settled on glowering at her, instead. “You know, there _is_ such a thing as the telephone,” he pointed out.

“Of course there is,” she replied lightly, pasting a placating little smile on her face. “But you never gave me your phone number.”

“Incidentals,” he growled. “Or don’t you know how to call information?”

“Everything’s fine,” she insisted again. “I was just a little late . . .”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he narrowed his gaze at her and stubbornly shook his head. “Need I remind you that you could very well be in danger, and you’re off running all over hell’s half-acre without a care in the world.”

That got her attention quickly enough. She looked a little taken aback for all of a moment before dissolving in helpless laughter.

“It’s not funny, damn it!” he growled.

“You make it sound like the mafia’s after me,” she pointed out between giggles.

“It’s entirely possible—and it’s not funny,” he snarled.

Isabelle’s laughter waned a little but didn’t dissipate completely. “Aw, did you miss me, Dr. Marin?” she asked, inclining her head as she took a step toward him.

“Hardly,” he snorted, willing himself not to blush and failing miserably as he glowered at the floor. “I was hungry, that’s all.”

Her lips twitched ever-so-slightly as she carefully regarded him. “Were you rumbly in your tumbly?”

“Jezebel—” he began in a thoroughly menacing tone.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” she relented, her apology sounding completely insincere. “I couldn’t help it.”

He stifled a growl, asking himself just why it was that Isabelle simply refused to take anything seriously. “Next time you’re running late, you’ll call, understand?”

“I understand,” she agreed easily enough. “I promise.”

And somehow, that didn’t really appease him, either . . .

Something moved in the deep pocket of the oversized wool sweater she wore, and for some reason, he just didn’t think that she was wiggling her fingers . . . “Oh, God,” he grumbled when a slightly muffled but still discernable sound wafted to him. Shaking his head in abject disbelief, Griffin stared at Isabelle as he tried to decide if she really had lost her mind. She looked sane enough, standing there with a smile on her face, as though she didn’t realize that Griffin might not be overly pleased with the—the—the _thing_ in her pocket. “Tell me that’s not—”

Her smile brightened as she carefully pulled— _it_ —out and presented the beast to Griffin with a flourish. “Isn’t she _precious?_ ” Isabelle crooned, stroking the cat? rat? as she lifted the vile thing to rub against her cheek. The only fur on the nasty thing was the white fuzz on its four feet and a little fluff on its tail . . . it was ugly— _hideously_ ugly—possibly uglier than Charlie, and that was saying a lot. Huge ears that made the animal look more like a genetically altered bat and tufts of mud brown fur sticking out along its spine just didn’t do a thing to endear it to Griffin, and he couldn’t help the disgusted growl that slipped from him as he stared it down. He supposed it might be considered a kitten in some warped and twisted alternate universe. It might even look like a kitten if it actually had any hair . . .

“No, it’s not,” he stated flatly, irked to no end that she came home late, completely disregarded the thought that he might be worrying about her, and to top all that off, she’d brought home a kitten in rat’s clothing . . . “You’re not keeping it.”

That got her attention quickly enough, and she turned an imploring eye on him. “But she was alone in the parking lot at the store! She’s just a _baby!_ I mean, _look_ at her!”

Waving his hand as Isabelle stepped toward him, extending the kitten for his perusal, Griffin made a face and leaned away before she managed to infest him with—whatever was causing the little monster’s hair to fall out. “Forget it, Isabelle. That animal’s got the mange.”

She twisted to the side, sheltering the kitten against her chest as she screwed up her face in a thoroughly incensed scowl. “She does not!”

Griffin snorted. “The hell it doesn’t. Look closer. There’s obviously something wrong with it. You should have left it where you found it. It’s just going to die, anyway.”

He regretted his words about the moment they were out of his mouth. Wincing inwardly as Isabelle’s expression shifted into one of complete and utter distress, she looked like she just might cry—a prospect that completely horrified him. “She’s not,” Isabelle finally said, her voice barely more than a whisper, and she refused to even glance at Griffin. “I’ll take care of her. I’ll take her to the vet, and you won’t even know she’s here . . . It’s not a big deal.”

Heaving a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose as he struggled for a calm that he just wasn’t feeling. “You’re still not keeping her,” he growled.

“You wouldn’t make me put her back outside in the cold, would you?” Isabelle asked, eyes widening in a shamelessly pleading sort of way.

“You’re a dog, aren’t you? Dogs hate cats,” he pointed out.

“Only half dog,” she argued as the little cat mewed.

“Charlie!” he said sharply as the dog danced around Isabelle’s feet. He wanted to see what he smelled, and whether he wanted to play with the animal or eat it, Griffin wasn’t sure, but he did know that neither of those options boded well. When the dog didn’t listen, Griffin heaved a sigh, striding over and grabbing Charlie’s collar to drag him toward the back door. “Forget it, you,” he grumbled.

“Oh, he’s fine!” Isabelle called after Griffin.

He just snorted, shoving Charlie out the back door and pivoting on his heel to glower at Isabelle. “Get _that_ out of here,” he insisted.

“But—”

“Now.”

“Griffin—”

“ _Now_.”

“Oh, come on, I—”

“Now, Isabelle! _Now!_ ”

He wasn’t sure exactly what he’d expected. He supposed that he thought she’d argue with him. After all, in her mind, it was one of the pathetic creatures that needed her help, wasn’t it? He’d figured she’d give him a little fight, anyway . . . What he didn’t expect was for her shoulders to slump, her chin to drop, and he watched in a sort of suspended reality as she jerked her head in a nod once, twice, before turning to go back the way she’d come.

The door clicked closed behind her minutes later, and Griffin blinked in the silence of the house. It took a few minutes for him to make sense of what just happened. He’d won? Against Isabelle . . .? He shook his head, scratched the back of his neck as a confounded scowl surfaced. He _never_ won against Isabelle, did he? Why now? And why . . .?

Deliberately slamming the door on that train of thought, Griffin snorted indelicately and stomped over to let Charlie back into the house. He didn’t feel bad, damn it. He _didn’t_.

The flash of Isabelle’s slumped shoulders, the absolute defeat in her aura mocked him, and he paused with his hand on the door handle before yanking it open with a slight growl.

‘ _You do, Griffin; you know you do_.’

‘ _I don’t. She should have known that I wouldn’t want a dirty little creature like that in my house_.’

‘ _Now, now, the cat’s not that bad. Sure, she looks a little rough, but you’d look rough, too, if you were abandoned in a parking lot_.’

‘ _Maybe . . . Listen, you, this is_ my _home, and I don’t want any cats, damn it_.’

‘ _Sure, it’s your home. It’s also Isabelle’s home, at least for now. You’re the one who insisted that she move in, right? Would it really be so bad to give a little on this? Besides that, you have to admit that you were rather mean about the animal, to start with . . ._ ’

He snorted at that since he didn’t really think he was being mean, at all. The truth hurt sometimes, didn’t it? Isabelle might as well get used to that. ‘ _That wasn’t mean; it was_ honest _. . . and I’ve done nothing but give in to her since she moved in. Christmas decorations and the crap she calls food that is gradually taking over my refrigerator . . . I even brought her dog over, didn’t I? And just what is it with Isabelle and butt-ugly creatures? Charlie . . . that cat . . . me_. . .’

His youkai sighed. ‘ _And maybe she sees past the outside to what’s inside, and maybe that’s far more important, don’t you think?_ ’

‘ _No, I think she needs her eyes checked; that’s what I think_.’

‘ _Yeah, you would_.’

Heaving a sigh, Griffin crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at the front door as Charlie sniffed around the spot where Isabelle had stood with the hairless wonder she called a kitten. Whining softly, the dog tried to figure out where Isabelle had taken the beast.

Griffin slowly shook his head and stomped toward the foyer, muttering under his breath about cajoling women and really ugly cats.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Myrna didn’t glance up as the heavy steel door clicked and swung open to admit the intruder into her small realm.

“Hey, Myrna, did you get a chance to check into that case I asked you about?” Bas Zelig asked, carefully closing the door so that it didn’t bang shut.

Myrna nodded and patted the printed out stack of papers beside her; all neatly collated and stapled once in the upper left corner. “Everything I could find that might pertain to that, yes . . . There wasn’t much.”

Bas sighed and pulled the papers off the desk to flip through the pages. “Yeah, I didn’t figure . . . Dad already had an extensive file, and if they couldn’t figure it out back then . . .”

Pushing herself to her feet as the chair slid back on its casters, Myrna pivoted to eye the man. It struck her once more, just how big he really was. Easily a good couple inches taller than his sire and most assuredly quite a bit broader, the next North American tai-youkai was formidable—maybe more so than his father, really. Though Cain Zelig’s authority went without question, there was an intrinsic gentleness in the man that was harder to see upon first glance in his son. Bas tended to look a little more intimidating most of the time, likely because of the stark quality of his golden eyes. They shone like gemstones, quick and calculating, and, as she had found out so long ago, easy to discern and process danger in moments. He was a true force to be reckoned with, and while Myrna didn’t fear him, she could understand why others might.

Still, she knew that there tended to be more bark than bite to the man, and while he fiercely protected those he considered his own, he was also fair and slow to cast aspersions most of the time—qualities that would serve him well in the centuries to come, she was sure. Those were some of the reasons that he’d been able to win Myrna over in the beginning. He was, as the cliché went, just a really nice guy.

“Yes, well, I didn’t say it was going to be _impossible_ ,” she went on airily. “After all, you’ve got me, right?”

Bas peered up from the papers he was scanning over to grin just a little. “Right,” he agreed. “So you’re telling me that you _can_ dig up more information?”

She shrugged and shot him a calculating smile. “I’ll see what I can do, Baby Zelig.”

He chuckled at the nickname she’d bestowed upon him long ago. He had a surprising sense of humor at times, Myrna had to admit, and while she’d been told that it was relatively recent development—one that coincided with his taking a mate—Myrna had to admit that he was one of her favorite targets since he couldn’t help but be amused when the huge man blushed.

“Thanks, Myrna,” he said, inclining his head before ducking out of her domain.

She waved absently as she turned back to her work.

“Did you find out anything?”

She almost jumped at the impatient sound of Gunnar’s voice. As it was, she couldn’t help the slight stiffening of her back as she turned enough to peer over her shoulder at the man in question. Leaning against the wall just inside the door, he must have let himself in as Bas was leaving, and while he looked almost bored, the slight tightness around his eyes spoke volumes about his current mood. It’d been a while since she’d last seen Gunnar quite so irritated over something, and that was saying a lot since the man in question tended to pride himself on the stoic façade he often presented.

“Not a thing,” she allowed, foregoing the usual banter since the puppy looked like he was ready to snap.

She didn’t have to look back at him to know that the tightness around his eyes had very likely given way to a narrow-eyed scowl designed to let her know that she had sorely displeased him.

“I need a little more to go on,” she remarked when he remained silent, “even something small . . . anything, really . . . ‘bear-youkai’ is just a little too vague.”

“He’s scarred,” Gunnar said suddenly.

Myrna stopped still and slowly turned to eye him. “Scarred?”

Gunnar nodded. “Yes, scarred . . . the left side of his face . . . his hands . . . and I’d imagine he’s got more, but I didn’t see them.”

Myrna digested that for a moment as she pushed herself to her feet and paced the length of the floor. “Youkai don’t scar,” she pointed out quietly, thoughtfully.

Jamming his hands deep into the pockets of his immaculately pressed black dress-pants—designer, she was certain. Gunnar Inutaisho was, after all, the _complete_ package, wasn’t he? Effortless precision . . . that was a good way to describe him . . . “Not under normal circumstances; no . . . that’s why it’s rather remarkable, don’t you think?”

“A _scarred_ bear-youkai,” she mused, rubbing her forearms at the lingering chill in the pretty prison she called home that never quite went away. “Thank you, Spot . . . you’ve been a great help.”

He snorted, most likely at the nickname she used from time to time. “Next thing you know I’ll be doing your _entire_ job, Myrna,” he goaded. “No cheesecake for you.”

She stopped mid-stride to level a look at him—a blank expression with the barest upturn at the corners of her mouth to give her away. “You know, I think you’re deliberately trying to bait me,” she pointed out.

Pushing himself away from the wall, he made a very deliberate show of flicking away a bit of lint from the sleeve of his pristine linen shirt. “Now would I do that to you?” he drawled.

“Yes, I think you would.”

He chuckled—a lazy sound that Myrna was certain had seduced more women than she’d like to think about. In her ears it sounded wholly predatory—an affectation that came a little _too_ naturally to the man, in her opinion. Though she hadn’t actually had the privilege of meeting Gunnar’s grandfather, she’d heard more than enough stories over the years. According to all of them, Sesshoumaru Inutaisho had perfected the same sort of elegance, the same contrived indifference, and he’d obviously passed that onto his grandson in spades. In any case, he shook his head and slowly lifted his gaze to meet hers, lazily blinking as his bright amber eyes seemed to take on an incandescent glow. “I don’t trust him,” he said.

“Makes sense,” Myrna agreed. “If you trusted him, you wouldn’t be trying so hard to dig up dirt on him, would you?”

Gunnar snorted—an inelegant sort of sound that bespoke his overall frustration with the given situation. “He’s managed to blindside Isabelle, and while she thinks he can walk on water, I’m not nearly as easily convinced.”

“That’s because it’s in your nature to distrust everyone,” Myrna scoffed as she grabbed a thick cashmere sweater off the back of a chair and slung it around her shoulders. “Man’s best friend, indeed . . .”

“Just do your job, Myrna,” Gunnar intoned, cocking an eyebrow in silent challenge.

“I take it you’ve met him?”

“If you can call it that,” he allowed.

She nodded. “Anything else you can tell me?”

Gunnar narrowed his eyes, tipping his head back enough to scowl thoughtfully at the ceiling. “About the same height as me . . . Big, of course. Makes sense. He’s a bear-youkai, after all . . . short, shaggy brown hair . . . brown eyes . . . and the scars.”

“Hmm,” Myrna mused, considering Gunnar’s description. “You’ve been most helpful.”

His response was a slight quirk of his eyebrows as he turned to head for the door. Myrna couldn’t help the little smile that surfaced as she watched his departure. The poor puppy just didn’t deal with frustration well, did he? Of course, she wasn’t very good with it, either, but Gunnar tended to take things much, much worse in that way, viewing his rare inability to produce viable results as some sort of personal slight; an imperfection in his skill as an investigator. It normally also led to his insular resolve to get his answers, and Myrna had to admit that it normally served him very well. In this case, however, it was bound to be more irritating than anything since he had promised not to tell Zelig about his inquiry, and because he had other things that he was supposed to be pursuing, which left him more or less dependent upon Myrna’s ability to gather the desired information.

Shaking herself as she let out a deep breath, she strode over to the desk once more and sat down to consider the things that Gunnar had told her. ‘ _A scarred bear-youkai_ ,’ she mused, biting her lip and tapping her claws thoughtfully against her chin as a slow smile spread over her pretty features. ‘ _Thank you, Gunnar . . . thank you very much_ . . .’

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle smiled as she peered over the notebook braced against her raised knees at the dog lying on his side in front of the roaring fire and the kitten, curled into a tiny ball nestled against Froofie’s belly.

‘ _I can’t believe he let you keep that kitten_ ,’ her youkai voice chimed in.

Isabelle’s smile widened as her gaze shifted to the man in question. Hunched over his desk as he worked on the translations, he hadn’t spoken to her since he’d strode outside, only to find her sitting on the porch steps with the kitten in her lap.

She hadn’t been trying to make him feel guilty. If anything, she’d been suffering that emotion, herself. Not once had she considered that Griffin wouldn’t be happy about the kitten she’d found in the parking lot of the grocery store, and that made her feel even worse. How could she ever expect to get Griffin to want to be her mate if she didn’t stop to consider his feelings on things more often?

 _Heaving a sigh, she lifted her chin to stare up at the weak light of the crescent moon high in the cloudless sky. The kitten mewed softly, and without stopping to think about it, she wrapped her arms a little tighter, slumped a little more, sheltering the creature from the wind—gently blowing but cold enough to make Isabelle shiver slightly_.

 _She was trying to figure out if there was anyone in her family that she could ask to take the kitten in, because she just couldn’t put the creature out in the cold again, even if Griffin didn’t want to keep it. Her first thought was to ask Bastian and Sydnie to take her since Sydnie was a cat-youkai. Then she’d remembered that Bastian had said once that he’d brought a female kitten home once, thinking that Sydnie would like it, only to discover that she saw the animal as a rival on the basest of levels, and he’d ended up giving the kitten to one of his friends_.

 _Next she’d considered guilting Gunnar into taking the animal, but decided that it probably wouldn’t work. If Gunnar didn’t feel badly about digging around in Griffin’s past, then he certainly wouldn’t have second thoughts about putting out a kitten, either, heartless bastard that he was_ . . .

‘Okay, so that was a little unfair,’ _she thought, wrinkling her nose and shaking her head sadly. Sure, she was still irritated with him, and if she saw him again anytime in the foreseeable future, she would probably take him to task over his perceived high-handedness. Still, she knew deep down that the only reason he was concerned was because he cared about her, and while she could appreciate his worry, she knew that he was wrong about Griffin_ . . .

 _Maybe she could talk her grandfather and grandmother into taking the kitten in. She wasn’t sure exactly how Cain felt about cats, in general, but Gin adored all animals other than rodents, and Isabelle was relatively certain that she could convince them, if she really tried_ . . .

 _She considered begging Griffin to let the kitten stay overnight since it was late, and she didn’t really relish the idea of driving all the way out to Cain and Gin’s house outside of Bevelle at the moment. She discarded the idea almost instantly. No, she’d imposed upon him enough of late, hadn’t she? Granted, he had insisted that she move in with him. Still, she knew damn well that it wasn’t something he wanted, and if she weren’t careful, she’d end up scaring him off or making him think that she was too high-maintenance overall to bother with_.

 _It was the most depressing idea, wasn’t it? In fact she was so lost in contemplation that she hadn’t even heard the front door open behind her; didn’t notice Griffin’s presence until he muttered rather gruffly that she was going to end up freezing since she hadn’t had the common sense to grab her coat, and if she was cold, the little ‘monster’ probably was, too_ . . .

And she’d understood, hadn’t she? It was something that she’d realized long ago. She knew, didn’t she? Knew exactly what he was saying even if he didn’t actually say it at all. That was something, at least to her. Griffin never, ever said exactly what he was thinking or feeling. As if he were trying to deny things, even to himself, he would say things, often the opposite of what he really believed, and Isabelle . . . she heard the truth behind it all whether Griffin realized it or not.

Rolling his head back and forth, he seemed infinitely weary, and yet he still worked on, and she smiled a little sadly as she wondered why it was that he never, ever complained. Griffin lived his life in pain, didn’t he, yet even as she realized this, she knew deep down that he would never willingly give up that pain, either. The questions whispered in the back of her mind; the knowledge just beyond her grasp . . . He’d been through something, hadn’t he? Something terrible . . . something that he clung to despite the agony it caused him . . .

‘ _What can I do . . .?_ ’ she asked herself, biting her claw as she stared at the wide expanse of his shoulders. She wanted to heal him, didn’t she? That was the reason she’d wanted to become a doctor ever since she could remember: to heal people, and yet . . .

And yet she wasn’t at all sure if she could heal the one person who needed her most: the one person she wanted to help above all others . . .

‘ _Do what it is you do best, Bitty_ ,’ her youkai prompted gently.

‘ _What I do . . . best . . .?_ ’

‘ _Laugh for him, Isabelle . . . show him that life is worth living. He’s just forgotten . . . You can do that, you know. Gin might not be your real grandmother, but you’re more like her than you think you are_ . . .’

She wasn’t inclined to believe that. Gin Izayoi Zelig . . . the woman who had given life back to Cain . . . She’d told Isabelle once that a smile was always the best medicine; better than any conventional cure could ever be. She could do that, couldn’t she? She could laugh for Griffin because he couldn’t find the strength to laugh for himself . . .

Clearing her throat, she couldn’t help the little smile that quirked on her lips when he shot her what could only be described as a longsuffering glance before dropping his ink pen on the desk and slowly turning in the chair to face her. “What?” he said, dismissing all preamble as he slowly shook his head.

Isabelle leaned over, dropped the notebook onto the table and arched her back to stretch. “I didn’t get my guess for the day,” she informed him.

He grunted in response but didn’t comment.

“Let me think,” she said, narrowing her eyes as she tapped her lips with her index finger. “Hmm . . .”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he muttered.

She giggled, linking her hands around her ankles. “Ah! I got it!” she said, snapping her fingers and sitting up a little straighter as Griffin’s expression turned a little more foreboding. “You got into a fight with the can opener of doom?”

He did a classic double take, his stoic expression faltering as his eyebrows disappeared beneath the heavy mass of his bangs. For a moment, she almost thought that he was going to break down and laugh out loud. He didn’t, though his eyes were brighter than she’d seen them in a while, and that, she supposed, was reward enough. “Yes,” he said without missing a beat.

“I knew it,” she said then laughed. “Face it, Dr. G; I’ve got you completely figured out.”

He made a show of rolling his eyes, shaking his head as his cheeks pinked just the littlest bit. He opened his mouth to say something but cut himself short as he wrinkled his nose and snorted. “Uh, don’t you think you should put a stop to that?” he grumbled, glowering at the floor near the fireplace.

Following the direction of his gaze, Isabelle couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up inside her. Froofie hadn’t moved an inch, but the kitten was shamelessly rooting around, obviously looking for something to eat. As though he sensed their ardent perusal, Froofie lifted his head to stare at the kitten. With a loud sigh, he flopped back down, completely nonplussed by the kitten’s attention.

“Aw, that’s just sweet,” Isabelle said.

Griffin snorted. “He’s a _boy_ , Jezebel . . . and he’s a _dog_.”

“Oh, the kitten’s just being cute,” she argued, waving a hand dismissively.

“Completely emasculated,” Griffin grouched, pushing himself to his feet and heading for the kitchen, probably for a mug of tea. “Find something for that little monster to eat before it gives my dog mange, too.”

“Your dog?” she blurted.

“Yes, mine. You gave up all rights to ownership when you brought that thing home.”

“I did not!”

He didn’t stop walking. “You did. Anyway, I’ll thank you to stop calling him that name you use. His name is officially Charlie now. Get used to it.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes but laughed, getting to her feet to retrieve the kitten on her way to the kitchen. She purred loudly, cuddling against Isabelle’s chest in a completely contented sort of way. At least she’d cleaned up well. Griffin had insisted that Isabelle give the kitten a bath before she was allowed to let her down to get acquainted with the place. The bath had uncovered a fluffy, clean coat of baby fine fur that had been matted down by car oil and other various things from her stint as a parking lot kitten.

“Froofie likes his name,” she pointed out as she followed him into the kitchen.

Griffin didn’t glance up from his task of adding honey to his tea. “ _Charlie_ doesn’t. All his doggy friends make fun of him.”

She giggled and set the kitten on the floor so that she could rummage through the refrigerator for table scraps since she hadn’t gotten a chance to buy food for the kitten. “His doggy friends, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Speaking of names, what do you think we should call her?”

Griffin snorted. “Butt-ugly.”

She snapped her mouth closed but laughed. “I am not naming her that,” she insisted.

“Accuracy in naming. Very important, _Jezebel_ ,” he stated.

“Oh? So your real name is ‘Sexy-as-Hell’, is it?”

The violent blush that surfaced was immediate and intense—and completely irresistible, in Isabelle’s opinion. “Jezebel,” he muttered under his breath, snatching the mug off the counter and striding out of the kitchen as quickly as he could go.

Isabelle couldn’t stop smiling as she flaked a small piece of leftover salmon and set it on the floor. The kitten found it almost instantly, purr cutting off as a low growl rumbled from her as she attacked the food with gusto.

Isabelle sighed, rubbing her arms though the smile remained on her lips. She supposed she ought to stop saying such things since they were technically against the agreement she’d made with Griffin in the beginning. Still, she couldn’t help it; not really. There was just something entirely endearing about a man who blushed . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
>  _That is one butt-ugly cat_ …


	22. Guilt

“ _Next time you’re running late, you’ll call, understand?_ ”

 _“I understand . . . I promise_ . . .”

He should have known better than to believe Isabelle when she promised to do something. He really should have known that she’d forget about it. What he hadn’t expected was that she’d forget about it quite so soon since she’d just made that promise to him the night before.

Griffin sighed. He was relatively certain that she was just trying to test him. Why else would she deliberately be gone long after she should have been home without as much as a word to let him know that she was running late? When she did get home, he was going to let her know that her thoughtlessness was not something that she was going to get away with; not by a long shot . . .

The kitten mewed plaintively as she rubbed up against Griffin’s leg. Pausing just long enough to scowl down at her, he stifled the urge to sigh and resumed his stance by the window, glowering out at the falling evening.

‘ _It figures_ ,’ he thought with an acerbic snort. ‘ _Just because she can’t see the danger she’s in, she’s thumbing her nose at me_ . . .’

‘ _Do you really think that’s so? I mean, Isabelle might not believe you about that, but it doesn’t mean she’d pull another no-show just to piss you off_.’

Narrowing his eyes at the empty road, Griffin could feel his frustration rising. ‘ _Wouldn’t she?_ ’

‘ _No, she wouldn’t, and that means one of two things_.’

‘ _Do tell_.’

‘ _Well, either she’s in trouble_ —’ His youkai’s words were cut short by Griffin’s low growling. ‘— _or she’s gotten herself caught up in something important_.’

‘ _What’s more important than picking up her damn phone to tell me that she’ll be late when she knows exactly how I feel about it?_ ’

‘. . . _Do you_ really _want me to answer that?_ ’

Griffin snorted, unaccountably irritated at himself for being bothered by Isabelle’s absence, in the first place. ‘ _Important, huh?_ ’ he mused grudgingly instead.

‘ _Sure . . . she is a doctor, after all . . . maybe one of her patients needed her_.’

Damned if that pacified Griffin, either. It still didn’t hold water; not in his mind. Isabelle could have found time to call. Glancing over his shoulder, narrowing his glower as he willed the telephone to ring, he felt his hands closing over the window sill; felt his claws sink deep into the thick wooden frame.

The kitten mewed again, and Charlie wuffed quietly, lifting his head where he lay by the hearth, looking as though he were expecting something, too. He was waiting for her, wasn’t he? Waiting for Isabelle, just like Griffin was . . .

Where the hell was she?

He hated it, didn’t he? He hated how empty the place he called home felt whenever Isabelle was gone. He didn’t fully understand exactly how she’d managed to insinuate herself into his life, and he knew deep down that he ought to be scared as hell. It’d been so long since he’d looked at anyone to give him a semblance of comfort just from their proximity, and somehow . . .

Why didn’t she call?

Pushing himself away from the window, Griffin stooped down and scooped up the kitten, idly stroking her head as he shuffled off toward the basement. At the rate he was going, he’d end up wreaking havoc on everything inside his house if he didn’t do something to distract himself fast. Standing around, staring out the windows and listening for the telephone to ring was going to drive him mad . . .

The soft click of claws on the floor told Griffin plainly that Charlie was following him, too. Just before he padded down the stairs, he stopped and looked back, staring through the doorways toward the foyer and heaved a heavy sigh at the vast expanse of emptiness before obediently trudging down the stairs after Griffin.

Dropping onto the sofa with a heavy sigh, Griffin let the kitten down and leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. He hadn’t slept well the last few nights; even worse than normal, and it was starting to catch up with him. Worse had been the dreams that he couldn’t quite remember; ones that jerked him awake an hour after he’d finally managed to doze off. Body drenched in a cold sweat and unable to remember even the smallest detail of those dreams, it had taken a while to calm himself down; to reassure himself that there really was nothing wrong.   He wasn’t sure why he knew deep down that those dreams somehow involved Isabelle, but he did. She’d be in trouble, and he . . . he hadn’t been able to save her . . .

And maybe that was the real reason why her conspicuous absence bothered him.

Flopping back, he closed his eyes and willed himself to settle down. She’d call, he told himself. She promised . . .

Closing his eyes against the ambient lighting that erupted in a dull ache in his head, he tried not to listen to the silence. Isabelle was going to laugh at him, wasn’t she? She’d smile and say that there wasn’t a reason for him to worry, in the first place. She seemed so certain of that, didn’t she? Too bad Griffin tended to be way too pessimistic to believe her.

In his mind, he could almost remember the dreams that had been plaguing him. They seemed so near, just under the surface of his cognizant memory, but he couldn’t reach them, no matter how hard he tried. He could almost make out vague images, more of shadows dancing over a blanket of white light like the trace outlines of the most fleeting of thoughts, but the white was tinged with the color of blood, darker around the edges of his mind’s eye. Whispers in his ears that didn’t quite form coherent words . . . or maybe it was the steady howl of the wind . . .

A stab of emotion rose in him, roiling like the angry ocean just before a storm. There wasn’t a complete sense in it, but if he’d been forced to put a name to it, he might have said that it was despair; a sadness so thick, so choking, so full of sorrow that it removed the bitter edge from the underlying sense of malice. If he could just understand . . . His brain felt groggy, dull and slow from the nights spent staring up at the ceiling in the haze of darkness shrouding his bedroom . . .

His breathing steadied, evened out, softened into a constant rhythm in the quiet. He didn’t feel his fingers uncurl from the tight fists he held clenched against his sides; didn’t realize when the kitten cautiously crawled onto his lap only to curl herself up into a tiny ball of fur, her nose tucked into the down of her tail.

And he slept . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

The clunk of the nondescript black canvas bag on the table was lost in the general commotion of the establishment as Haruo slipped into the vacant chair with a smug grin on his face. “Mission accomplished,” he said in a lousy affectation of the English language, probably picked up after watching a few too many gangster movies.

Alastair didn’t blink and didn’t take his eyes off the young Japanese man, slowly reaching out and snagging the bag, drawing it across the table but not bothering to look inside. Haruo reeked of the baser smells that made up his human body though Alastair kept his features blank despite the revulsion that raced up his spine. The vaguely wild look in his glassy dark eyes gave away the obvious influence of whatever he’d found to achieve a cheap high.

‘ _Pathetic_ ,’ Alastair thought with a mental snort. Humans were far too weak-willed, interested in thrills that only lasted a moment; never once bothering to look at the bigger picture. It was their weakness, and weakness could always be exploited . . . “And you did as I instructed?” he asked curtly, his Japanese a far sight better than Haruo’s mangled English.

Haruo nodded, crossing his arms over his chest in an entirely smug sort of way. “Vandalism,” he quoted. “Exactly as you instructed, boss.”

Owlish gaze raking over the unwitting patrons in the bar, Alastair didn’t respond right away as the prosaic nature of humans struck him yet again. Vile creatures, weren’t they? Always dashing off from here to there, always hurrying from one meaningless task to another like a succession of ants on parade . . .

A volatile half-grin twisted the corners of his lips as he stood up, dismissing Haruo without as much as a second glance, grasping the bag’s strap and pulling it off the table and heading out of the bar, not surprised in the least when the young man shot to his feet and dashed after him.

‘ _Humans are far too simple to manipulate_ ,’ he thought in an absent sort of way as he pushed open the door and stepped onto the busy Tokyo street. The electric lights that lined the boulevard lent a measure of courage to those who believed that safety dwelled in the light, and while Alastair would savor the opportunity to prove how pathetic they really were, he couldn’t; not yet . . .

“Oi, boss!” Haruo complained, darting around people milling on the sidewalk to catch up with Alastair’s long gait. “You pay me, yes?”

Alastair almost smiled. “That was the agreement, wasn’t it?” he murmured.

“Yes, yes!” Haruo said, his voice registering his obvious relief.

Alastair paused long enough to spare the human a condescending glance, an enigmatic little smile. “Of course,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “I am a . . . man of my word.”

“There was just one notebook,” Haruo went on, anxiously dancing around Alastair in a nervous, anxious sort of way. The human’s antics reminded Alastair of a common mongrel begging for table scraps, but he narrowed his eyes and considered Haruo’s claim, discounting the thought as though it were of no real consequence. “You sure you don’t care if I keep the other shit?”

Alastair veered to the right, stalking up the cement steps that led to the overpass footbridge that traversed the busy street below. It was very empty at this time of night, and aside from two people—a couple, or so it would seem—he didn’t sense any others. “What you do with whatever you found does not interest me,” he rebuked coldly. “You mean to tell me there was only one notebook?”

“Yes, yes,” Haruo said, nodding emphatically as he waved a hand toward the bag clutched in Alastair’s hand, sniffing loudly as his right eye took on an involuntary twitch. He looked completely strung-out—a fact that did not go unnoticed by the observant youkai . . .

It wasn’t possible, was it? Avis had said that Kichiro Izayoi, the touted genius offspring of InuYasha, was the most likely to have the research, damn it, and Alastair had believed that it made perfect sense. Who better to complete the project than the lauded prodigy; the nephew of the Inu no Taisho? ‘ _Who, indeed?_ ’ he thought, gritting his teeth together as Haruo prattled on, gloating over the spoils he’d stolen in an effort to hide the real reason for the break-in.

Stopping under a lonely streetlamp in the harsh circle of light that did nothing to dispel the blackened shadows made all the more sinister by the glow of the city below, Alastair jerked the bag open and snatched the notebook. Haruo’s eyes kept darting to the knapsack. The fool had left his plunder in it, which accounted for his seeming skittishness.

It only took a few moments of scanning through the pages for him to realize that it didn’t contain the information he sought. Nonsense—obviously some form of shorthand, but it couldn’t possibly be the research that Alastair was after . . . With a muffled curse, he shoved it back into the bag and threw the bag at Haruo. “Incompetent!” he hissed, narrowing his cold gaze on the human.

Haruo barely managed to hold onto the bag as he stumbled away from the irate youkai. Eyes flaring wide, skin paling fast, he looked like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and the thrill of his consuming terror crackled in the air. The echo of his own pulse resounded in Alastair’s ears, and he licked his lips, tasting the fear as his eyes flashed from stagnant black to crimson with the throb of his beating heart. “You failed,” he ground out, lifting his claws; cracking his knuckles. The sound was deafening, heard over the seemingly distant hum of traffic on the street, and Haruo reacted in kind; backing away; as far away as he could.

He let out a frightened little yelp as he butted up against the railing, his right arm flailing helplessly as he struggled to retain his balance. He didn’t take his eyes off the youkai as his fear grew stronger; as the sense of absolute revulsion thickened in the air like a palpable entity.

Alastair advanced on the pathetic human, savoring the all-consuming sense that invariably accompanied the hunt. The sense that he was a power unto himself, like a god in the mythos of long-gone societies where the omnipotent ones could raze a world with little more than a quirk of will . . . It was how the order was meant to be, and it could start with this insular human . . .

Curling back his lips in a silent snarl, his fangs glinting in the wan light of the street lamps. He would not abide carelessness, and failure? Alastair erupted in a visceral growl, a sound borne of frustration.

Haruo was babbling, uttering inane words that lacked the basest sense of coherence. There was no one to help him; no one to save him, and as the boy muttered something that almost reminded Alastair of a prayer, he was struck once more by the frailty of the human mind. Unable to comprehend the things that they could not explain, Haruo called Alastair a demon, an ogre, a Buddha.

Advancing slowly on the miserable being, Alastair fed off the emotion that seethed and rolled. With a strangled shriek, Haruo tried to run, tried to escape, but Alastair was faster, stepping into his path every time he tried to turn, to flee. Staggering back away from the enraged youkai, Haruo tripped and faltered, his balance impaired by the drugs surging through his system. Swinging one arm wildly as he sought to regain his footing, he stubbornly refused to let go of the bag, and maybe that was his ultimate mistake. Alastair lunged toward him, and in his haste to get away, he toppled over the low railing, his expression a pathetic mix of fear, of panic, of the inevitable fate that awaited him on the street below.

But inasmuch as Alastair wanted to watch, to savor the moment, some baser part of his conscious reminded him that he could not afford such a luxury. His body disintegrated before the thought solidified, taking on a hazy red light as he zipped away from the overpass, away from the curious eyes of anyone who might have looked otherwise. Below him in the night, he could hear the screech of tires, of a woman’s ear-piercing shriek as a thousand sounds converged.

And still he didn’t dare stop. Time was of the essence now. He didn’t doubt for a moment that they would send out an investigator of their own. The prodigy would not be lax enough to allow the trespass to go unremarked, and while Haruo could be easily tracked, Alastair needed to get out of Tokyo before his involvement was discovered . . .

‘ _Besides_ ,’ he thought as he shot through the night sky toward the blinking lights of Tokyo International Airport. It’d be simple enough to buy a ticket and be on the next flight out of the country. ‘ _I think I need to talk to Avis . . . in person_ . . .’

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Izayoi Kichiro stood in the middle of the lab with his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face as he surveyed the destruction of weeks—no, months—of work. All the test tubes that he’d been carefully observing were nothing more than shards of glass left in puddles of congealed fluids that stained the pristine white counters in mottled shades of amber.

He’d taken countless samples from various hanyou, himself included, as he sought to isolate the gene that caused infertility on all but two nights a month. It wasn’t a huge deal, in and of itself, but finding the source and figuring out how it worked might well prove to be something that could benefit hanyou later on. So far he’d figured out that the sperm in hanyou semen tended to live much, much longer during the fertility period when hanyou babies were produced, and conversely, the human sperm produced during the hanyou’s period of vulnerability normally died within minutes of being ejected from the host. It was a curious thing, especially when compared to human samples—the trade off, he supposed, for only being viable two times a month. Now all the research he’d been working on was lost, and he’d have to start from scratch.

The trill of his cell phone cut through the shocked silence that had fallen, and with a heavy sigh, he dug the device out of his pocket, sliding it open to answer the call.

“Hello?” he answered, dragging a weary hand over his face.

“Hi, lover. I thought I’d call to see if you were on your way home yet.”

Not even the velvety sound of his mate’s voice offered him much comfort, but he smiled wanly—barely a trace of emotion. “Not yet,” he admitted.

“Oh? What’s wrong? You sound a little upset . . .”

He sighed, knowing that Belle was liable to take the news about as well as he had. Damn it, he had stopped in to pick up his notebook—a notebook that was missing at the moment—only to find . . . this. If he’d been just a little sooner, he might have been able to apprehend the hooligan, and the biggest concern wasn’t really the break-in since the lab was insured and everything that had been destroyed could be replaced. No, it was the missing notebook that worried him most despite the knowledge that even if the thief tried to make sense of the notes, there wasn’t really anything that could be discerned, written as it was in Kichiro’s own version of short-hand. Still, it was the log he was keeping on the daily findings with the latest research . . .

“The lab was broken into,” he finally said.

Belle gasped. “You’re kidding . . .!”

“I wish.”

“Were they after your research?”

“I don’t think so,” Kichiro replied, scowl darkening as he took in the sight of the broken doors of the medicine cabinet he normally kept locked. “The guy might have been after the meds in lockup,” he mused, sparing a moment to glance at his watch. It’d been almost ten minutes since he’d called his twin brother, Ryomaru. To be honest, Kichiro was surprised that he hadn’t arrived already. “Probably some pup looking to score a cheap high.”

“Youkai?”

He shook his head then nodded as Izayoi Ryomaru strode into the lab. “Human,” he explained. “Look, Belle-chan, I’ll be home shortly. Ryo just got here, so . . .”

“Okay,” she said. He could tell from the slightly muffled quality of her voice that she was biting her bottom lip and pondering what she’d been told. “Be careful.”

“I will,” he promised, sliding the phone closed as he turned to face his brother. “What took you so long, fat ass?” he grumbled, kicking a pile of loose papers that were scattered on the floor.

“Well, I was in the middle of something that took a little precedence over your phone call, baby brother,” Ryomaru shot back with a wolfish grin. “Can’t up and leave Nez unsatisfied, can I?”

“Nasty,” Kichiro remarked, ignoring the ‘baby brother’ comment since he was technically younger—albeit by a mere few minutes. “Anyway, what are the odds that you can find the little fucker that did this?”

“Not like you to sound so vindictive,” Ryomaru pointed out with a raised eyebrow as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against one of the lab tables.

“Don’t rightly care that the lab was ransacked, other than the pain in the ass of re-doing the samples,” Kichiro remarked with a sigh as he surveyed the carnage once more. “The little troll stole my notes, though . . .”

“Oh, well, balls,” Ryomaru grumbled since he knew the gist of what, exactly, his twin brother was researching. “Ain’t no one ever told you not to put so damn many things in writing?”

“Not like they’ll figure out what they have, anyway, but I’d feel better if I had the notebook back.”

Ryomaru nodded slowly, pushing himself to his feet once more and carefully picking through the debris, scowl deepening as he rather thoughtfully sniffed the area. “You going to call the police?”

“Yeah. Figured I’d wait until you gave the place the once-over.”

“Thanks,” Ryomaru muttered.

Kichiro fell silent and stood back, waiting patiently while Ryomaru got a good handle on the intruder’s scent. He’d heard far too many times about the difficulty in tracking down a certain smell when a place was overrun with the police after a crime. It was in that vein that he had called his brother before he’d even thought of telephoning the local authorities. There’d be time enough to do that after Ryomaru was finished . . .

“I got it,” Ryomaru finally said, sparing a moment to glance over his shoulder and making a face at the empty medicine cabinet. “I’ll call you when I find the guy . . . damn baka . . . bet he was strung out when he broke in . . .”

Kichiro nodded as his brother stalked out of the lab. The clinic was silent as Ryomaru’s footsteps echoed down the hall, growing fainter and fainter as he moved away. Kichiro waited until he heard the heavy thud of the doors that led to the stairwell slipping closed before he opened his cell phone again. It was answered after the third ring.

“Tokyo police.”

Kichiro rubbed his temple and sighed. “Yeah, I wanted to report a break in . . . the Izayoi Medical Clinic . . .”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle slipped the key into the lock and closed her eyes for a moment, bracing herself against the frigid steel as she drew a deep breath to steady herself before turning the key and slowly pushing the door open. The early morning sun behind her glimmered and shone, reflected off the mounds of snow that seemed to blanket the world in every direction, as far as she could see, and not for the first time, she had to wonder just how it could seem as though everything was fine when she knew deep down that it wasn’t; that it never would be ‘fine’ again . . .

‘ _Don’t beat yourself up over it, Bitty . . . you did everything you could have possibly done_ . . .’

Grimacing at the soothing quality in her youkai’s tone, she shook her head and blinked back a fresh wash of tears that rose to blur her vision. That wasn’t true; not at all, and as much as she might want to believe it . . . well, she knew better, didn’t she? She knew, and . . .

And she’d failed.

‘ _Pull yourself together, can’t you? Griffin . . . you’ll just worry him if you walk in there crying_.’

Gulping hard, she swallowed down the sob that swelled in her throat. She was tired—horribly tired, and yet she wasn’t at all certain that she’d be able to sleep . . .

She was supposed to be working today, but she needed to swing past home to shower and change—and to try to convince herself that she wasn’t nearly as worthless as she felt—before heading back into the office for work, though to be quite honest, she wasn’t at all sure that she’d be able to make it through the day, in the first place. Seeing patients who trusted in her and who thought that she was a competent doctor . . . smiling when she felt like sitting down and having a good cry . . .

‘ _One thing at a time, Bitty . . . that’s all you really can do, right?_ ’

She sighed. ‘ _Right_ . . .’

So taking a fortifying breath, she pushed the door open and stepped into the foyer.

Funny how everything seemed so very normal. The silence of Griffin’s home offered her a semblance of comfort that somehow made her feel that much worse though she wasn’t entirely sure why. Everything seemed so normal, just as it had been when she’d stepped outside a little over twenty-four hours ago—a lifetime ago . . .

A dull thud drew her attention, and she turned just in time to see Griffin stomping through the basement door looking entirely irritated if not still a little groggy. She could tell that he’d just woken up—he must have fallen asleep downstairs—but he stopped short when he saw her, his expression registering a momentary relief just before the harsh mask of irritation slammed down over his features, as he crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at her, and yet . . . and yet she had the feeling that he wasn’t nearly as angry as he looked . . .

“Just where the hell have you been?” he growled, his tone low despite the obvious anger seething just below the surface.

To her horror, she could feel her throat constricting once more; could taste the rise of tears that tingled in her nose and stung her eyelids. “I . . . sorry,” she choked out, pushing past him and hurrying toward the bathroom. “I’m late,” she muttered, hoping that her half-answers were enough to pacify him, at least for the moment.

“Isabelle—” he began as Isabelle shoved the door closed and locked it.

“Can we talk about this later?” she called, clearing her throat as she stubbornly ordered herself not to cry.

He didn’t answer for a moment, and she had the distinct feeling that he was seriously considering forcing the door open instead. As the seconds ticked away, as she braced her shoulder against the door—a ridiculous notion since she really didn’t have the strength to back it up, she heard him sigh at last and closed her eyes in relief as the sound of his footsteps finally moved away from the threshold.

Only then did she move away, taking a moment to turn on the shower taps as the first tears started to fall. What was it that her mother had said once? Tears in the shower . . .

No one could ever tell . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
>  _… Evil cliffie of doom …?_


	23. Tears in Heaven

‘ _Something’s bothering her. Don’t make it worse, Griffin_ . . .’

He grunted at the quiet words of admonition from his youkai voice as he glanced back at the clock and shifted in the chair to wait. ‘ _Yeah, well, if she thinks that she’s going to get away with her thoughtlessness—of her blatant disregard for the promise that she made—then she’s sadly mistaken_.’

‘ _All I’m saying is that she was really upset, in case you didn’t notice . . . do you really think that making her feel worse is a good idea?_ ’

‘ _When you make a promise, you abide by the consequences_ ,’ he argued. ‘ _No one twisted her arm. The least she can do is apologize for being completely thoughtless—again._ ’

His youkai sighed, figuring that there really was no reasoning with him. After spending nearly four hours in a classroom on the campus of the University of Maine giving a lecture in one class and then a test on ancient Aztec writing in another, he was pretty much at the end of his patience, and he knew—just knew—that had Isabelle not come home when she had, he probably would have called his classes off for the day. As it was, he figured that he should have done that, anyway. Good thing that the class didn’t meet again for another week since he was still grading the first one of them and had been trying to do so for nearly two hours while waiting for Isabelle to walk through the door again.

She was a hypocrite, wasn’t she, constantly telling him that he needed to get things off his chest when she was no better about doing the same thing . . .?

Griffin snorted, drawing Charlie’s attention as the animal lifted his chin off his paws and stared rather sadly at him. “And don’t you dare take her side,” he admonished, narrowing his eyes on the dog.

Charlie wagged his tail and uttered a soft little whine before dropping his nose between his paws and heaving a sigh as his eyes drifted closed again.

“You, either,” he grumbled as the kitten rubbed against his ankle. The rotten little beast broke into a loud, if not rusty sounding, purr.

He sensed Isabelle’s youki the moment she opened the door, his scowl darkening at the forlorn sense that greeted him. It was entirely different from the aura she normally surrounded herself with, and for reasons he didn’t want to think about, the sadness bothered him.

But he waited until she stepped into the living room, a thin little half-smile twitching on her lips—a wooden sort of expression that didn’t even come close to lighting her eyes, and it struck him again that when Isabelle smiled—truly smiled—her entire being smiled, too. If she really thought she was fooling anyone, she was sadly mistaken . . .

Her smile faltered when she met Griffin’s gaze, and she shuffled her feet almost nervously, as her eyes skittered away, as she stared at her hands clasped in front of her like a little girl who had ripped her Easter dress . . . “I’m . . . I’m sorry about this morning—and last night,” she whispered in a voice so soft that he had to strain to hear it. “I should have called . . . but I . . .” Trailing off, she shook her head and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry . . .”

The meekness of her apology only served to further Griffin’s rising irritation. “Where the hell were you?” he growled, crossing his arms over his chest and leveling a no-nonsense glower on her.

“There was an emergency,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, but I—Excuse me.”

She barely got that out before she dashed out of the living room. Griffin blinked, his anger not even close to being satiated, when she quietly closed her bedroom door. He wanted to make her understand, didn’t he? Needed to make sure that she knew exactly how worried he’d been when she didn’t come home, when she didn’t have the decency to call . . .

Dropping into the chair once more, Griffin heaved a sigh and shook his head. ‘ _Irrational woman_ ,’ he thought as he snatched up the red ink pen he’d been using to grade the tests. ‘ _Doesn’t have a whit of sense to her and doesn’t ever think about anyone else_ . . .’

Which wasn’t true at all, and he knew it. Too bad his mood was too black to listen to reason at the moment . . . ‘ _The next time she does anything even remotely close to this, I swear to God I’ll_ —’

‘ _Griffin?_ ’ his youkai blood interrupted.

‘— _turn her over my knee or_ —’

‘ _Griffin_ . . .’

‘— _beat some sense into her . . . That’s the trouble with women like her. She’s never_ —’

‘ _Griffin!_ ’

‘— _been taught that there are consequences, so she just doesn’t think, and then_ —’

‘ _Hey,_ Griffin!’

Sitting up straight, Griffin shook his head, his tirade cut short. ‘ _What?_ ’

His youkai heaved a longsuffering sigh. ‘ _Grumble about that later, will you? Right now you’ve got bigger fish to fry_.’

‘ _What are you babbling about?_ ’ he demanded, dangerously close to losing his patience with his youkai, too.

‘ _Can’t you tell?_ ’

‘ _Tell what?_ ’

‘ _Pay attention, you moron . . . I think . . . I think she’s . . . crying_ . . .’

That stopped him short, and he blinked in surprise, dropping the pen and leaning back in the chair as his head swiveled around to stare at the empty hallway. Narrowing his gaze, he cocked his head to the side and listened. There wasn’t a sound other than the soft ticking of the clock on the mantle. ‘ _Don’t be ridiculous! Isabelle doesn’t_ . . .’ he began only to trail off when the muffled scent of something salty tingled in his nostrils. The smell reminded him of the warm summer breeze blowing off the ocean, but they were too far inland for that to be the case, and even if it were possible, it was winter, which meant . . .

‘ _They’re tears, Griffin; tears . . . and it’s been a while since you’ve smelled anything like that . . . but she’s hurting, and she’s sad, and maybe_ . . .’

Rising slowly to his feet, Griffin didn’t think as he headed down the hallway. Drawn nearer, nearer, he didn’t question the unnamed emotion that gave rise to the surge of panic that swept through him. He wanted to make her stop, didn’t he? But every time he reached for the door handle, he hesitated. If he wasn’t certain that she was crying before, he was now. Her sadness contained an abrasive quality, chafing his youki; chafing his soul . . .

Standing outside her door for what seemed like forever but was likely only minutes, Griffin winced and turned away, grinding his teeth together as he forced his feet to move, to carry him away from Isabelle . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Kichiro didn’t glance up from the pile of papers littering his desk as Ryomaru strode into the room, bringing with him the tingle of cold air with the underlying stale smell of the crowded city. Wrinkling his nose as a whiff of formaldehyde infiltrated his senses, Kichiro rubbed his nose then adjusted his glasses before dropping the police report onto the nondescript pile and turning his attention to his twin.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Ryo, but you fucking stink,” Kichiro remarked rather mildly.

Ryomaru snorted and rolled his eyes. “Yeah? Wouldn’t know why . . . just spent the last three hours at the morgue,” he shot back. “If you think I stink, you shoulda sat in there with old man Ain’t-Got-A-Sense-Of-Humor . . .”

“Ah, Kenichi-san was working, I take it.”

Ryomaru nodded. “Yep . . .”

“The morgue, you say?” Kichiro mused, sitting back and scowling at his brother.

“Yeah, the morgue,” Ryomaru reiterated, digging the missing notebook out of his leather jacket and tossing it onto the desk. “Had to play nice to get that, too . . . hard-ass bastard . . .” He made a face and wiped his hands on his jeans before pinning Kichiro with a fulminating glower. “You know where they fucking _stick_ that preservative shit?” he demanded.

Since Kichiro had spent time paying attention in medical school, he did know, but in an effort to appease his sibling, he just shrugged. “Did that bother you?”

“Keh!” Ryomaru snorted indelicately. “Not exactly. Then again, I reckon there are some things in this world I’m better off not knowing.”

Kichiro chuckled. “Just make sure you die an honorable death, and you won’t have to worry about having formaldehyde injected into your post-mortem body.”

Ryomaru grinned, perching himself on the far corner of Kichiro’s desk. “Now, see? That’s what I’m talking about! Don’t leave nothin’ for the scavengers; that’s what I say.”

“You’re entirely screwed in the head,” Kichiro remarked but grinned. “How’d you get this? Wasn’t it confiscated for evidence?”

“What evidence?” Ryomaru scoffed. “The pup’s dead—and he _was_ just a pup. So doped up on meth-meth-method—” he said, snapping his fingers as he struggled to find the word he wanted.

“Methadone?” Kichiro supplied with a quirked eyebrow.

“Yeah, that . . . stole it from your stash, probably—Oi, why the fuck do you have something like that in your medicine cabinet, anyway?”

Rolling his eyes, Kichiro pushed away from the desk and stuffed his hands into his pockets, pacing the length of his study. “It wasn’t in _my_ medicine cabinet, you baka,” he grumbled, pausing by the windows that looked out over the back yard where Belle and Samantha, their youngest daughter, were busy building a snowman in the six inches of accumulation they’d gotten overnight—snow that was already melting and would likely be gone by nightfall. “I just kept some on hand in the lab, was all. You never know when you’ll need something, and that was the most secure location—or so I thought.” Heaving a sigh, he shook his head but didn’t look back at his brother. “Dead, huh?”

“Yep, dead. Fell off the overpass in front of a delivery truck. If the fall didn’t kill him . . .”

Kichiro winced.

“Anyway,” Ryomaru went on, ignoring the obvious disdain in Kichiro’s braced stance, “he had everything there with him in this cheap black canvas bag. Took a bit of convincing, but Dull-As-Dishwater-sensei finally decided that the other shit in the bag was enough evidence that the lack of the notebook wouldn’t be remarkable—I assume you didn’t bother reporting that as stolen?”

“No, I didn’t,” Kichiro admitted. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem,” Ryomaru said moments before a wide yawn precluded speech.

Kichiro rolled his eyes but finally grinned. “Get out of here, will you? You’re stinking up my house.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ryomaru said, pushing himself to his feet and ambling toward the door. “If you don’t like it, then feel free to call someone else next time your panties are all bunched up.”

Kichiro laughed and nodded, waving over his shoulder as he reached for the handle of the glass doors. Belle spotted him as he stepped outside, her smile bright and instantaneous, and she leaned in to whisper something to Sami before the two of them dashed over to his side . . .

‘ _Funny_ ,’ he thought as he wrapped his arms around his two girls and let them both kiss his cheeks. ‘ _Things always look so much different in the bright light of day_ . . .’

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“ _But you’re her doctor, and you told her that everything was_ fine . . . _I don’t understand . . . How could this have happened?_ ”

 _Biting her lip as she slowly nodded, unable to do much more as the shock of the news wore off, Isabelle couldn’t do more than remain quiet and try to answer Kevin McKinley stared at her, his gaze full of questions, of confusion. She had brought him in here just after he’d arrived. Though she didn’t delude herself into trying to believe that he would take the news well, she owed it to his wife to try to make him understand before he went in to see her. “I’m so sorry, Mr. McKinley . . . when she came in, everything_ did _look fine_ . . .”

 _Standing up so quickly that the chair he’d almost collapsed into skidded across the floor only to smash into the white cabinets lining the wall of the small examination room, he shot her a murderous glower, raking his hands through his light brown hair as he paced across the floor and back again. “She believed you! You told her . . . you said she was okay! You said_ —”

“ _She seemed okay,” Isabelle said quietly, stinging from the anger that was fast replacing the shock even as she reminded herself that the man had every right to be upset. “Everything seemed routine, and the urinalysis was fine_.”

“ _Fine, my ass!” he bellowed, eyes flashing, the tendons in his throat standing out. “You should have done more tests, damn it! You should have figured it out! You . . . you . . ._ damn _you! You call yourself a doctor? Because of your carelessness, you . . . you killed my daughter! You’re a murderer! A_ murderer! _I’ll have your license, you bitch! See if I don’t!_ ”

 _Wincing at the hostility in his tone, at the cold vindictiveness in his words, Isabelle blinked hard to keep from tearing up. The things he was saying were the same things she’d been telling herself over and over since early this morning when Kristen McKinley had walked into the office; since the moment when she’d realized that something was desperately wrong. The once active baby had stopped moving a couple days before, Kristen had said, and she’d been suffering some pains—just twinges, she’d maintained, and a trace amount of bleeding. She hadn’t wanted to seem like a mother hen, she’d said. She didn’t want to run to the doctor constantly only to be told that everything was okay . . . but the real signal that there was a problem came when Isabelle hadn’t been able to find the baby’s heartbeat. She hadn’t wanted to be one of those mothers that called or came in for every tiny thing, Kristen had maintained, and because of that_ . . .

 _An emergency ultrasound along with some accompanying blood-work had confirmed Isabelle’s worst fear: the placenta had torn—small enough that it hadn’t been remarkable during Kristen’s last visit after her fall. Somehow the rupture had grown larger, causing massive bleeding in the uterus and basically poisoning the infant in-utero, and because of the lack of treatment_ . . .

 _And she’d tried to find a way to forestall the delivery—to at least put it off until Kristen’s husband got back from his business trip. She couldn’t do it, though. Kristen’s coloring was paler than normal, and her heartbeat was fast and labored. If they waited too long, the toxins could seep into Kristen’s tissues, putting her life in danger, as well. To exacerbate it all was the placement of the infant. She’d already descended low enough that a cesarean delivery wasn’t possible without causing more harm to the infant’s body—something that Isabelle simply could not consider; not after everything else . . . It was the most difficult thing she’d ever had to do, explaining the situation to the mother-to-be. Kristen had looked completely bewildered, as though she couldn’t quite grasp the meaning behind it all. She didn’t even cry when Isabelle had told her that it was too late to save the baby_ . . .

 _In fact, Kristen’s sobs hadn’t come until she was holding the unmoving infant, and then they’d come with a vengeance. They still echoed in Isabelle’s ears as she made her way to the waiting room where the receptionist had asked Kevin McKinley to wait. She’d left the woman holding the cold body of her infant daughter when the nurse had whispered in her ear that the father had arrived_ . . .

 _And it was hard to try to explain a thing when she already blamed herself. If she’d just ordered more tests run . . . if she’d made Kristen come in sooner or even had her check into the hospital for observation . . . if only . . . and maybe they’d be at home with their newborn instead of sitting in a desolately clean room as far away from the hospital’s maternity ward as they could be . . . It was the only thing Isabelle could do for them in the end, to have Kristen put in a room where the cries of other people’s infants could be heard; where infants in portable bassinettes were wheeled to their mothers’ rooms . . . Isabelle couldn’t ask Kristen to endure that_ . . .

“ _You killed my daughter! You killed my daughter! Murderer! Murderer_ . . .”

Slapping her hands over her ears, Isabelle squeezed her eyes closed despite the tears that streamed down her cheeks unchecked, wishing that the sound—the hateful sound—of Kevin McKinley’s voice would fade away yet unwilling to let it go. She’d failed him, failed Kristen, but worst of all, she’d failed Baby Girl McKinley, the infant who never got a chance to open her eyes . . .

She didn’t hear the soft tap on the door or the whispering click as the knob turned. She didn’t sense Griffin’s youki as he slipped into the room. So lost in her own misery and hellish contemplation, she didn’t realize that he was there standing beside her bed until he cleared his throat.

Hiccupping as she struggled to stop crying, she swatted the tears off her cheeks and shook her head, fighting for a semblance of control over her emotions that she simply didn’t have.

“Wh-why are you leaking?” Griffin grumbled though not unkindly.

She sniffled miserably, burying her face in the cradle of her raised knees, embarrassed that she couldn’t seem to staunch the flow of tears and mortified that Griffin knew it. “I-I’m okay,” she lied, her voice shaky, muffled by her legs.

He grunted in response. “You’ll go to hell for lying,” he remarked, gingerly sitting on the side of the bed. “I, uh, brought you some tea . . .”

She couldn’t even summon the will to answer. His presence, the unvoiced concern in his youki, only served to make her feel that much worse when she knew deep down that she didn’t deserve to accept the comfort that he offered her. The McKinleys wouldn’t be able to find such a thing, would they, and she . . . she couldn’t accept such a thing, either.

He shoved the tea into her hands with a decisive grunt. “Drink that before you get all dehydrated,” he grumbled.

It was the last thing she wanted to do, but she just didn’t feel up to trying to argue with Griffin, either. Choking down a few sips of tea, she noted in her distraction that he’d even added honey to the brew—something he’d never let her have before. “Thank you,” she murmured half-heartedly, and to her absolute horror, her vision clouded with tears once more.

“You do that all day while you were working?” Griffin mumbled, shifting uncomfortably as he waved a hand at the spectacle she was making.

Isabelle choked back another round of tears, forcing herself to down the rest of the tea though she just couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye as he reached out and gently took the empty mug from her, setting it aside on the nightstand. “No,” she whispered, drawing a ragged breath as she swatted at her damp cheeks. “No, I . . . well, I drove there . . . but I . . . I didn’t go in . . . I couldn’t, and . . . and . . .”

“So what did you do then?” he asked, his voice a little gruffer than normal, or maybe it was just her imagination. She finally dared a glance at him. He was scowling down at his hands though she had a vague idea that the scowl, itself, wasn’t exactly directed at her . . .

Heaving a sigh, Isabelle grimaced, her eyes still burning with the effort to stave back her tears. “I just . . . drove,” she said quietly, clearing her throat and shaking her head. “I drove down to the coast . . .”

“A little cold to go wading, wasn’t it?” he intoned. It seemed to her that he was being more careful than usual in choosing his words. The thoughtful gesture brought more tears to her eyes, but she stubbornly blinked those away, too.

“I didn’t go wading,” she said. “I didn’t really know what I was doing . . . I just . . . ended up there, I guess . . .”

He digested that in silence as she sniffled and tried not to hear Kevin McKinley’s words echoing through her head: _You killed my daughter! You killed my daughter . . ._ ” Smashing her fist against her lips, it was all she could do to stop herself from screaming . . .

“You going to tell me why you wanted to run away?”

His question startled her, and she recoiled as though he had physically struck her. “I-I wasn’t running away,” she protested weakly.

“What else would you call it?” he countered.

It occurred to her that he wasn’t actually being unkind. His words were abrupt, but his demeanor and his tone were not. “Maybe I was,” she admitted softly. “I just couldn’t . . .”

“So you just . . . drove?”

She nodded rather vaguely, dragging in a ragged breath that she immediately released in a heartfelt sigh: a weary sound—a broken sound. “It seemed . . . wrong . . . The world keeps going without any sort of acknowledgement . . . It was so surreal. I couldn’t do it . . . I don’t have the right . . .”

Griffin grunted, obviously confused by her clumsy way of trying to explain as he fumbled in the breast pocket of his gray and black flannel shirt. “Why don’t you start at the beginning before you flood me out of house and home?”

“At the beginning . . .?” she repeated, rubbing her temple and taking the handkerchief he rather abruptly shoved under her nose. Dabbing her eyes, she frowned at the bit of crisp white linen. “I . . . I’m not sure where that is . . .”

“Then what’s the gist of it?” he asked instead.

She winced. “I . . . I killed . . . their baby . . .” she whispered.

Griffin’s back stiffened at that revelation, but he didn’t turn to look at her. Another wave of guilt nearly overwhelmed her, and she squeezed her eyes closed, clutching her stomach and pitching forward against her raised knees. “Somehow I doubt that,” he muttered, shaking his head and heaving a sigh as a hint of something foreign crept into his tone—something warm and all the more poignant, hidden behind the rumble of his voice. “Just give me the facts, girly.”

“I did,” she muttered, her voice rasping, harsh, almost screechy as she fought to control her emotions. The truth hurt, and while she might be able to make excuses, they wouldn’t do a damn thing but assuage her conscience in the end . . .

“So you think you killed someone’s baby,” he reiterated in a matter-of-fact rumble that made Isabelle grimace as a soft little whine that was wrenched from her. “Did you mean to?”

“Of course not!” she snapped, righteous indignation flaring at what she considered a ridiculous question.

Griffin nodded, turning his head just enough to peer over his shoulder at her. “Then you didn’t kill anyone.”

She sat up, letting her head fall back as a few errant tears squeezed through the seam of her closed eyelids, sliding down her temples into her hair. “I’m a _doctor_ ,” she retorted, the angry tone of her voice breaking, giving way to a high pitched screech that rang in her ears. “I should have known, and—”

“And you’re still not making any sense,” he cut in quietly. “Why is it your fault?”

“Because I’m a doctor!” Isabelle growled, unable to control her rising irritation that Griffin kept asking her what should have been obvious.

“So you’ve said,” he growled back, “and yes, you’re a doctor, but you’re sure as hell not God.”

“Isn’t that what a doctor is supposed to be?” she challenged, her eyes flashing open as she finally met his gaze. He didn’t blink, and he didn’t look away, and somehow it only served to inflame her anger a little more. “A doctor saves people! That’s what I should have done, and I . . . I couldn’t; it was too late, and . . . and . . .”

“You’re wrong, you know. Doctors aren’t gods, and just because you couldn’t save one baby doesn’t make you a devil, either.”

“Doesn’t it?” she challenged, her tone belligerent; her eyes almost wild.

He shook his head and narrowed his eyes on her as though he were trying to read her mind. “Your father’s a doctor, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but—” she began, unsure where he was going with his question.

“And you’re going to tell me that he never lost a patient?”

“Of course not!” she scoffed, her temper rising by degrees.

“Are you sure about that?” he challenged.

She opened her mouth to retort but snapped it closed, cheeks pinking as she remembered a little too late that her father had worked in an emergency room, himself, and he’d told her more than once that sometimes there were those that couldn’t be saved.

Griffin interpreted her expression well enough, and he sighed, shaking his head slowly. “You’re not meant to be perfect,” he pointed out.

His words, softly spoken despite the disdain she heard underlying them, were enough to siphon away her anger, leaving her feeling lost and empty once more, trapped in the confines of recrimination so biting that she felt as though she was going to scream, and yet . . . and yet his presence alone was soothing to her tattered emotions, and even if he didn’t know the effect he had on her, she couldn’t help but crave the solace that he unwittingly offered. Letting out a stunted breath, Isabelle shook her head, dragging a hand through her tangled hair, lips quivering precariously as she sought to find a way to explain how she felt. “She came in last week after falling on the ice,” she finally said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper as she smashed the handkerchief in her fist so tightly that her knuckles leeched white. “I checked her over . . . ordered a urinalysis . . . but everything looked fine . . . just fine . . .”

“You mean the test came back normal?” he questioned.

She nodded, her eyes glossing over as she stared at the worn but beautiful quilt that covered her bed. “Yes . . . no trace of blood . . . no sign of infection . . . _nothing_ . . .”

Griffin grunted.

“But it wasn’t fine,” she admitted, “and when she came in yesterday for her checkup . . . Her placenta must’ve torn just a little in the fall—not enough to show up in the urinalysis right away since it had just happened the night before, but enough to . . .” She swallowed hard and had to draw a few deep breaths to keep from breaking down completely. “When she came in, she said the baby . . . hadn’t really moved . . . a couple days . . . and I . . . but then . . . I—” Cutting herself off, she smothered a soft sob with the back of her hand, unable to control herself for a few minutes as the raw memories cascaded down around her once more. The sickened feeling Isabelle had gotten in the pit of her stomach as she’d desperately tried to locate the baby’s heartbeat . . . the anxiety that Kristen McKinley had fought to hide as she lay on the table, her belly exposed while Isabelle administered an emergency ultrasound . . . the shock on Kristen’s face when Isabelle had explained to her in hushed tones that her baby . . . the desperation as she forced herself not to break down in front of her patient . . . and the cruel words of Kevin McKinley—words and condemnations that Isabelle had wholly deserved . . . “So I had to induce labor because . . . because it was too late, and . . .”

“It would have been dangerous to the mother,” he supplied when Isabelle’s voice faltered.

She nodded, sniffling miserably. “She asked if I could wait a few days. Her husband was away on a business trip, but I couldn’t, and . . . And she was alone, and I couldn’t do a damn thing for her . . .”

The bed shifted, and Isabelle wiped her eyes with the handkerchief again—they’d started to tear up once more. Griffin had turned to face her, and for a moment, she wondered if he was going to reach out to her, but he didn’t. “It doesn’t sound like you did anything wrong,” he mumbled, scowling at the quilt as he smoothed it absently.

“I did; I did . . . I should’ve run more tests in the beginning . . . A non-stress test or ordered an ultrasound or—”

“Is that common practice? You said, yourself, that everything seemed fine,” he said a little too reasonably.

Isabelle sighed. “It doesn’t matter! I should have known! If I had ordered more tests . . .”

Griffin cleared his throat, crossing his arms over his chest as he sat back and lifted his gaze to her once more. “Even if you _had_ ordered more tests, do you really think that you’d have figured it out? You said, yourself, that the urinalysis didn’t show anything wrong.”

“That doesn’t really make me feel any better,” she whispered. “She was perfect, you know? Her color was a little off but not bad . . . ten fingers . . . ten toes . . .” Isabelle choked on a sob as the entirely too-real image of the stillborn baby with the downy corn-silk hair haunted her. Perfect, perfect, and yet she never opened her eyes, never drew that very first breath . . . “Kristen kept . . . begging me . . . begging me to save her daughter, and I . . . Over and over and over . . .” she whispered, unsure if she were speaking aloud or if it were just the same things she had been rehashing time and again in the confines of her mind. “Just kept pleading with me to save her . . . ‘ _She’s . . . she’s sleeping, right? Just sleeping_ . . .’ but she wasn’t, and I couldn’t . . .”

“Don’t do this to yourself,” Griffin rasped out, his voice oddly roughened, as though he was suffering as much as Isabelle was.

“Do you know what that’s like?” she demanded in a broken hiss, turning her tear-stained face toward him, her eyes pleading, wondering if there really was any way he could ever understand. “Do you have any idea how it felt when I held that baby in my arms? I would have done anything— _anything_ —to give her back to her mother, and . . . and I . . .”

Griffin closed his eyes, gritted his teeth together so hard that his jaw ticked while Isabelle tried to keep from breaking down in sobs. The room was silent other than her stunted breathing, and she could hear her pulse drumming relentlessly in her ears, loud enough to drive her mad as the sound of a mother’s racking wails rose like the winter wind’s bitterest gale.

“I’ve tried to reason it in my head,” she confessed as a few more tears slipped down her cheeks. “She never even got a chance to . . . to _live_ . . . It doesn’t make sense—none of it makes a damn bit of sense, and it’s my fault . . .”

“No,” Griffin cut in sharply, eyes flashing open, a fierceness in the depths of his gaze that startled Isabelle. She started to shake her head, but he was faster; reaching out, grasping her arm, shaking her almost roughly, and yet there was a certain desperation that she didn’t quite understand. “Don’t you do it; do you hear me? Don’t you blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault, and . . .” Trailing off, he drew a deep breath, his grip loosening though he didn’t let go. “It’s never going to make sense. Sometimes . . . sometimes . . . something like that will never make sense, no matter how many years you live.”

She stared at him for several long seconds. The misery in his expression; the raw emotion in his eyes . . . He did understand, didn’t he? He understood . . .

And maybe it was that simple realization that he knew—that he understood the feeling that she was completely worthless; that no matter what she knew in her logical mind, her heart just could not comprehend it all . . . With a harsh cry, she felt the last strands of her control give way as the torrent of sobs that she’d been keeping in check finally broke free. Smashing her hands over her face, she couldn’t stop the ragged wails that escaped her. It felt as though her heart was breaking, as though everything inside her ached so desperately that she just couldn’t contain it any longer.

The heaviness that encircled her was slow, halting, almost jerky, and she didn’t really understand anything other than the basic instinct, the need to draw close to someone— _anyone_ —in her desperation. So lost in the tide of emotion, it didn’t really register in her mind . . .

It was too much for Griffin. Watching as her heart broke was killing him. Something about her reached out to him—the need to fix it for her a palpable thing, and even though he knew that there wasn’t a thing he could do to alleviate the pain she felt, he couldn’t just let it go, either.

Closing his eyes tight, he clumsily pulled Isabelle close, tucked her head under his chin as he patted her back, pitifully trying to comfort her and feeling like a complete failure as her body shook, every muscle straining with the force of her sobs as she clung to him; as he felt himself dying a little inside with every tear she shed . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
> … … …


	24. Admonition

She didn’t know how long she’d sat there crying on Griffin’s shoulder as the bear-youkai rather clumsily patted her back and mumbled silly things about how he’d already taken one shower today, thanks, and that she needed to do something about her ‘leaking’ problem before she drowned them both. She wasn’t even sure when she’d finally realized that he was holding her—uncomfortably, sure—his body was completely tense, as though he just didn’t know what to do with himself, and yet the sweetness of the gesture wasn’t lost on her, either, and for that, she’d adore him forever.

She cried until she’d cried herself out as she huddled against Griffin’s chest. His shirt was damp and clingy from her tears, and her head hurt horribly, the result of having spent so much emotion, she supposed, and while Griffin kept grumbling, his tone had softened as though he were trying to distract her from her upset. She didn’t have the wherewithal to sit up, though, and at least for the moment, Griffin seemed inclined to let her lean on him. Her hiccups and sniffles resounded in the otherwise quiet room as she drew on his strength. Maybe she could have cried longer, but it seemed like her entire being was just too exhausted to do it, and worse was the resignation in her, the sense that nothing would ever be right again . . .

“Look at you,” Griffin mumbled quietly, leaning back to gaze down at her, his eyebrows drawn together in a thoughtful scowl. “You’re all blotchy and stuff.”

Choking out a little laugh, Isabelle sniffed again and sat up just a little. “Bad, huh?” she mused.

“Terrible,” he agreed with a curt nod. “Just when I thought you couldn’t look much worse . . . see what happens when you spring a leak?”

Her smile trembled precariously, his teasing a welcome distraction from her upset. “I . . . I’m sorry for that,” she murmured.

Griffin rather clumsily patted her back. “It’s all right. Just don’t make a habit of it. I don’t have many handkerchiefs, and you’ve ruined that one.”

She nodded slowly, wishing for a moment that he’d pull her back against his chest, wincing as the fierce sense of loss swept through her despite her knowledge that he’d only allowed the contact because he’d felt bad for her, in the first place.

“About last night . . .” she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I should have called, and—”

“You had more important things to deal with,” he interrupted. “Just don’t make a habit of it.”

She sighed as the wan smile faded, as the gravity of the situation slammed down on her once more. “He said he was going to . . . to charge me with malpractice,” she said, a note of sheer hopelessness creeping into her tone. “I deserve it, too . . .”

Griffin snorted indelicately. “The hell you do,” he grumbled, his tone taking on a hint of fierce irritation. “You did what any doctor would have done in that situation: no more, no less. They don’t take away your license for that.”

“I _should_ have done more,” she said though her tone lacked the conviction that it once had, or possibly she was just too tired—mentally exhausted . . .

He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Should have, would have, could have . . . the world is filled with enough regret, don’t you think? Adding to it isn’t really going to change anything.”

Shaking her head, she reluctantly pulled away from the comfort of his embrace to rub a weary hand over her face. “You don’t understand,” she began quietly, her voice as dull and listless as her gaze. “She kept . . . She kept saying that the baby . . . The baby looked like she was sleeping; just sleeping . . .”

Griffin didn’t reply right away, and when Isabelle finally looked at him, she grimaced inwardly at the thinly veiled anger in his expression. No, it wasn’t anger, exactly . . . it was more like . . . frustration . . .? It was difficult to tell with Griffin since he rarely expressed himself in the same way as anyone else. “Are you so arrogant that you really believe you’re the only person who ever—?” Cutting himself off abruptly, Griffin drew a deep breath and shook his head, jaw twitching as he struggled for a grasp on his emotions.

“Griffin?”

Letting out his breath in a rush, he shrugged as though to brush off his outburst. “Their pleas never go away,” he mumbled, cheeks pinking slightly as his scowl deepened; as he averted her gaze entirely. “Never . . .”

‘ _Pleas . . .? Nightmares . . . Griffin_ . . .’ she thought though she didn’t dare give voice to her thoughts; couldn’t have done it if she’d wanted to, anyway . . . But he knew, didn’t he? And maybe . . . maybe he understood it all better than she ever would.

Rubbing his eyes, he slumped forward, letting his hands dangle between his knees as his scowl shifted into the one she was most familiar with. She had the distinct impression that he was more than a little irritated that he’d let that much slip, and that didn’t entirely surprise her. He was too used to keeping things to himself, and while she hadn’t really asked him to tell her anything, he’d wanted to reassure her, hadn’t he, and that, alone, spoke volumes to her . . .

Still, the prospect of having to defend her judgment in this instance weighed heavily on her. Even if she hadn’t actually made a bad decision, someone _had_ suffered, and because of that, one of her patients had lost her child, and that was enough to make her feel sick all over again. Worse, though, was the knowledge that she didn’t even _want_ to defend herself. How could she when it would ultimately mean that she’d be exonerated while the McKinleys were still left behind to pick up the pieces and try to move on? They wouldn’t be able to forget, and Isabelle . . . she shouldn’t be afforded that luxury, either, should she?

Carefully smoothing out the tear-dampened handkerchief, she couldn’t repress the occasional hiccups that still escaped her as she folded and pressed the bit of cloth in an idle sort of way. She felt emotionally drained—not really surprising, she figured. With the circumstances of the last couple of days, it was a wonder she hadn’t lost control of herself long before now . . .

Clearing his throat, Griffin drew her out of her reverie, and she frowned when she noticed the strange sort of rigidity that had come over him. Still seated on the bed, he wasn’t looking at her, and yet she could see the traces of strain evident in the unyielding curves of his back, his shoulders slightly drawn up . . . He seemed as though he were ready to jump at any provocation, but it was the tinge of pink that had crept into his cheeks that captured and held her attention. She could only see the unscarred side of his face from her vantage point, but that didn’t really matter. The man looked more uncomfortable than usual, and she had to wonder why that was . . .

“Up by the docks,” he blurted suddenly, his voice harsh, breaking slightly and forcing him to clear his throat yet again before he could continue. “There’s a restaurant . . . real small . . . sort of out of the way . . . They serve really fresh seafood, though . . . Really good if you don’t mind that it’s a little on the plain side . . .”

Isabelle’s eyebrows drew together a little more as she tried to figure out just what he was getting at. She remained silent, which only exacerbated Griffin’s acute discomfort. “Not too far, either . . . I walk there sometimes . . . well, not too often, but occasionally . . .”

‘ _What’s he . . .?_ ’ she thought almost absently as she stared hard at Griffin’s back.

“. . . Quiet, too—sometimes families go there, and the cubs tend to be a little loud . . .”

‘ _Oh, my . . . Bitty . . .? You don’t think he’s . . .?_ ’

Her frown deepened. No, she wasn’t sure what he was getting at, exactly. With anyone else she might have thought that he was trying to work himself up to asking her out to dinner, but this was Griffin, and . . .

“Anyway, I . . . I can pay for it since I’m asking, but—”

Blinking in surprise, her eyebrows shooting up to disappear under her bangs, Isabelle’s jaw dropped as realization slowly sank in. “Are you asking me out?” she demanded, unable to hide the hint of incredulity in her tone.

He turned about ten shades of red in the course of a few seconds, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. “W—I— _no!_ ” he growled, shaking his head furiously as his skin darkened to a crimson-purplish sort of mottled shade. “No, I’m just asking you to _dinner_ —it’s _not_ a date!”

She almost smiled—almost. Under normal circumstances, she supposed she would have, and she probably would have teased him a bit, too. As it was, she could only blink as suspect moisture gathered behind her eyelids again, and she understood that he was trying to make her feel better. “That sounds nice,” she demurred, drawing her feet up and resting her cheek on her raised knees.

Her answer didn’t seem to appease him very much, but he grunted curtly before pushing himself to his feet and pausing long enough to grab the empty mug off the nightstand. “Fine,” he mumbled under his breath before shaking his arm to expose his watch. “You have five minutes or I’m leaving without you—and no more leaking, understand?”

“Five minutes?” she echoed. “That’s not much time.”

He narrowed his gaze on her and slowly shook his head before turning on his heel and striding toward the doorway. “Four minutes and forty seconds,” he called back over his shoulder.

She did smile at that. “Let me grab my shoes,” she said, scooting toward the edge of the bed.

He grunted. “Just hurry up,” he complained as he stepped out into the hallway. “Probably want to do something about your face. You’re still all blotchy . . .”

‘ _It’s not a date_ ,’ she thought as her smile widened the tiniest bit. Shuffling through her closet, she pulled out a cream colored sweater and a pair of slightly darker wool slacks. Even if it wasn’t a date, she could deal with that, she figured. It was enough for her that he was trying so hard to make her feel better, wasn’t it?

‘ _Absolutely_ ,’ her youkai piped up as she hurriedly changed her clothes. ‘ _He’s just a complicated man; that’s all_ . . .’

Pulling her hair out of her collar, Isabelle stared thoughtfully at the carefully folded handkerchief lying on the bed as the hint of a smile gracing her lips slowly illuminated her eyes; as a tremulous sense of cautious hope slowly flickered to life . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

‘ _A scarred bear-youkai_ . . .’

Sitting back with a frustrated sigh, Gunnar Inutaisho tossed the tortoise-shell pen onto the desk with a clatter, curling his fingers against his lips as he pondered the information—or lack thereof—that Myrna had been able to glean. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Griffin Marin was easily a couple hundred years old, probably more.

‘ _It shouldn’t be this difficult_ ,’ he thought sourly, staring at the pale blue light emanating from the computer monitor of his laptop glowing in the dimly lit study. No, it was obvious to him that the guy was hiding something, and the more roadblocks he came up against, the more determined he was to figure everything out. It wasn’t normal, and while he could appreciate the compulsion to protect one’s privacy, this went a little bit further than that. There was something that the man was desperately trying to hide, damn it, and Gunnar . . . well, he didn’t like it, and he’d burn in hell before he’d turn a blind eye on this one, even if Isabelle was angry at him for it.

It just didn’t make any sense. The guy couldn’t have possibly just appeared out of nowhere. He had to have a past even if Gunnar couldn’t see it right off. The problem was, though, that even Myrna couldn’t even find a thing, and if that was the case, then Gunnar wasn’t sure if anyone really could. She was undisputedly the best at what she did, and that she couldn’t track down any information did not bode well . . .

Heaving yet another sigh, Gunnar dug the cell phone out of his pocket and punched in Myrna’s number, tapping his claws against the tempered glass desktop as he waited impatiently for her to answer.

“Just can’t get enough of me, puppypants?” Myrna greeted after the fourth ring.

He snorted. “Having any luck?” he asked without preamble.

She let out a deep breath. “Nope.”

Restraining the low growl that surged in his throat, Gunnar snatched up the ink pen once more, rapid-fire clicking it in an effort to alleviate his overwhelming frustration at the entire situation. “Unacceptable,” he reiterated, his tone even, level, deathly quiet. “You’re not trying hard enough.”

“The hell I’m not,” she snapped, obviously irritated by his insistence that she wasn’t doing her job right. “No one’s ever heard of any bear-youkai, let alone a scarred bear-youkai . . . unless they’re covering for him.”

“Which is entirely possible, don’t you think?”

“Certainly possible,” she agreed, “but highly unlikely unless there’s something else going on that I don’t know about yet.”

“Yes, well, isn’t that what you’re supposed to find out?” he demanded, quirking an eyebrow that Myrna couldn’t see.

“Look, I’m telling you that there is no record of anyone that fits your description—at least, none that I can find. Unless this guy just dropped out of the sky—”

“Unlikely,” Gunnar snorted as the clicking of the ink pen escalated.

“—Or you’re just making him up—”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”

“—Then I’m not sure what else to do. It’d be different if I could go and talk to some of these people in person. I’d get a better feel as to whether or not they’re lying. It’s not that difficult to lie to someone when you’re not looking them in the eye.”

And he had to concede that, too, not that it was any real consolation. Someone somewhere had to know about Griffin Marin, and he wasn’t about to let go of it until he had answers. Tightening his grip on the pen, Gunnar grimaced when it snapped in his hand, as black ink seeped out of the now defunct cartridge that had been broken in half in the process. Staring at his filthy palm, lip curled up in a derisive show of minor irritation, Gunnar dropped the debris into the trash can beside the desk and glanced around for something to wipe his hand on.

“It’s crap,” he grumbled, using the heel of his hand to lever himself out of his chair before stomping around the desk and heading for the doorway. “Unless this guy is some sort of myth or legend or something . . .”

“Myths? That sounds almost romantic, you know.”

“Hardly,” he snorted, using his elbow to hit the light panel beside the bathroom door and sticking his hand under the motion-sensor faucet. “Focus, will you?”

“It’s entirely possible,” she mused, her tone taking on a slightly bemused sort of whimsy. “I mean, how many legends were spawned by your grandfather and great-grandfather back in the day?”

Gunnar grunted since he’d heard a few of the legends—little more than fairy tales now—over the years. In school, they’d studied some of them, which had always made Gunnar somewhat uncomfortable. After all, he couldn’t very well tell anyone that the story of the Shikon no Tama was real though the events had been distorted by history, and he’d hated the retelling of the great dog-youkai who had, according to legend, spirited away a human woman and forced her to bear his half-breed child—the child who Gunnar knew as Uncle Yasha, of course . . . then were the tales of the dog ‘god’ who drove away the lingering youkai then disappeared into history’s annals. That ‘god’ was his grandfather, Sesshoumaru, and while the gist of the story was true enough—it was by Sesshoumaru’s edict that the youkai went into hiding—the method that was always depicted—the great dog god with one arm outstretched as violent light erupted from his fingertips, as a thousand youkai were destroyed—was entirely inaccurate. Legends made a man a hero or a fool, and Gunnar had never held stock in such nonsense . . .

Still, there was a level of truth to Myrna’s musings. Anyone who lived long enough was bound to spawn a folktale or two. Someone along the way had to have seen Griffin, and maybe . . .

“Myrna,” he said suddenly, shaking his hand off and scowling at the ink that still stained his palm. “Do something for me.”

“Sure, sure,” she agreed with a sigh. “Your wish is my command, Oh Great and Mighty Prince of the Puppies.”

“Keh,” Gunnar grumbled, grabbing a thick black towel out of the burnished steel ring beside the sink and wrapping it around his hand. “Do a web search, will you?”

“A web search?” she echoed.

Tossing the towel onto the sofa as he strode through the living room on his way back to the study, Gunnar grunted. “Yes.”

He heard the scrape of Myrna’s keyboard shelf being pulled out. “Okay . . . what am I searching?”

“Legends . . . scarred bears.”

The click of the keys punctuated the brief silence. Gunnar didn’t have to wait long. Myrna sighed. “Twenty-four-thousand-three-hundred-forty-five matches and climbing,” she remarked. “I suppose you actually think I have nothing better to do than to sit around reading legends on cheesy websites?”

“Why? Got a hot date or something?” Gunnar countered.

“You’re cold, Inutaisho.”

“I prefer brutally honest.”

“Yeah, and that brutal honesty is going to come back to bite you in the balls one day,” she predicted.

“Maybe,” Gunnar replied. “Anyway, send me links to the better sites.”

“Mmm . . .”

Clicking the phone off, Gunnar dropped it onto the deep crimson desk blotter and bit his cheek thoughtfully. It was a long shot, sure—even he had to acknowledge that. Still, what Myrna had said made sense, didn’t it, and even if there weren’t any legends about a scarred bear, maybe they’d figure out something that they hadn’t noticed before. In any case it was worth a shot . . .

Turning away from his desk, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, Gunnar narrowed his gaze as he peered out over the snow-covered landscape and sighed. At this point, anything was worth a shot . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

‘ _It is_.’

‘ _It’s not_.’

‘ _Yes, it is_.’

‘ _No, it isn’t_.’

‘ _As much as you’d like to tell yourself it isn’t, you know damn well that it is_.’

‘ _No, it isn’t. It really isn’t. Repeatedly saying that it is isn’t actually changing the fact that it isn’t_.’

‘ _Right, right . . . refresh my memory . . . what exactly is a date, then?_ ’

‘ _I don’t know, but this is just dinner; that’s all_.’

‘ _Just dinner?_ Please! _That’s the classic definition of a date!_ ’

Rolling his eyes as he pulled the menu up to cover his face a little better, Griffin snorted inwardly. ‘ _Dinner does not constitute a date_ ,’ he argued. ‘ _It’s just eating. Everybody does it. Nothing special._ ’

‘ _Yeah? And who’s paying for dinner? In fact, didn’t you_ insist _on paying?_ ’

‘ _It was polite since I asked her_.’

‘ _Uh-huh . . . asking a woman to dinner and paying for it . . . not a date ._ . . ri-i-i-ight . . .’

‘ _That’s all there is to it_ ,’ he maintained stubbornly.

‘ _You just felt bad for lying to her_.’

Griffin scowled at the menu. ‘ _When did I lie?_ ’

‘ _When you said she was all blotchy . . . she wasn’t_.’

Eyebrows drawing together, Griffin didn’t respond to that. He’d always heard that women tended to look anything but attractive after crying. That was what he’d been led to believe, and while he didn’t really have much experience as far as sobbing women were concerned, but he had a feeling that Isabelle might be different, anyway. Truth was, she hadn’t looked bad despite the slight ruddiness that was her nose and the tell-tale redness that rimmed her eyes. No, the tears had sparkled with the gentle light of the bedside lamp as they clung to her eyelashes—impossibly long; impossibly dark . . . her pale skin was touched with a hint of heightened color in her cheeks that weren’t blotchy at all, and maybe . . . Maybe if she had looked even a little bad, he might have been able to ignore the definite twinges that assailed him, and he had to admit, at least to himself, that he just didn’t want to see her cry. He was too used to the woman he knew; the Isabelle who would rather laugh off concern than take it to heart, who would rather tease and joke than stomp her foot and harass him to have her way . . .

She wasn’t a cry-baby, and maybe that had been the hardest part for him to deal with. Seeing her break down like she had . . . it just hadn’t sat well with him; not in the least . . . He’d never forget the way she’d looked when he’d opened the door; the overwhelming sadness that had engulfed her, and while he could still feel it lingering in her aura, at least he wasn’t as worried that she was about to burst into tears any longer . . .

“Everything sounds so good,” Isabelle commented, completely oblivious to his inner turmoil. “What do you recommend?”

Yanked out of his reverie, Griffin grunted but didn’t emerge from behind his menu. “Oh, the, uh, crab is always good . . . or the lobster . . .”

“What are you going to order?” she asked, her tone distracted since she was still reading through the choices.

“Oh, uh . . . I don’t know . . . probably crab . . .”

She nodded rather vaguely. “I could always get the lobster, and we could share,” she ventured.

“Or you could order the lobster with a side of crab legs,” he mumbled.

She closed the menu and set it aside. “I can’t believe I never noticed this place before,” she commented, casting an appreciative eye around the establishment.

Griffin very slowly lowered his menu enough to peer over the top without actually lifting his head. “It’s not very fancy,” he mumbled in an almost apologetic sort of way.

“No, it’s not,” she agreed, her eyes bright, curious. “I don’t think it has to be. It’s got nice atmosphere.”

Griffin snorted.

‘ _Well, at least you picked a damn fine looking woman to ask on your first date_ ,’ his youkai went on, much to Griffin’s chagrin.

‘ _It’s not a date . . . and she’s just all right_.’

‘ _She’s a far sight better than ‘just all right’ . . . and I hate to tell you, but it_ is _a date_ . . .’

‘ _No . . . it . . . isn’t_ . . .’

His youkai sighed. ‘ _Okay, let’s examine the evidence, shall we?_ ’

‘ _Let’s not_ . . .’

‘ _You asked her to dinner_.’

‘ _She was leaking. I wanted her to stop before she flooded my house_.’

‘ _Sure, you did, but that’s an entirely different discussion. Anyway, you asked her to dinner, and then you took a shower_.’

‘ _I always take showers_.’

‘ _Not in the evening, you don’t. Need I remind you that you even shaved?’_

‘ _I always do that, too_ ,’ he grumbled.

‘ _And brushed your teeth_.’

‘ _Well, duh_ . . .’

‘ _And your hair_ . . .’

‘ _So?_ ’

‘ _You even put on a new shirt—nice package creases, by the way_.’

‘ _And your point?_ ’ Griffin demanded with an inward growl.

‘ _Tell me again . . . what is that you have in your pocket?_ ’

‘ _My wallet?_ ’

‘ _And . . .?_ ’

‘ _And what?_ ’

‘ _And what else?_ ’

Griffin snorted since he knew damn well where his youkai was going with this. ‘ _A clean handkerchief in case she springs another leak_.’

‘ _And . . .?_ ’

‘ _Dunno what you’re talking about_.’

‘ _The hell you don’t! You’re packing breath mints, and the only reason that someone packs breath mints is because that someone is hoping to get a nice, big,_ fat _smoochie_.’

‘. . . _Tell me you didn’t just use the word, ‘smoochie’ . . . and that wasn’t why I have those. I didn’t want to bring a tooth brush along; that’s all . ._.’

‘ _Oh, yes, I did, and if that helps you sleep better at night_ . . .’

Griffin sighed and slowly shook his head, deciding that he was much better off ignoring his youkai voice.

“Evening, Dr. Marin. Been a while since your last visit,” the waitress—a middle-aged woman who had once told him that her name was Bertie—said as she stopped beside the small table. “And who’s your friend?”

Griffin closed the menu and cleared his throat as a heated blush filtered into his cheeks at the slight emphasis that Bertie used on the word ‘friend’. “Uh, she’s just—”

“I’m staying with him,” Isabelle explained sweetly.

The waitress laughed. “Why, Dr. Marin, I never figured you for the type . . .” she teased.

“It’s just dinner,” he blurted, his cheeks warming even more with every word that escaped him. “It’s not a _date_ or anything . . .”

Bertie laughed—a hearty sound—and patted him on the arm. “I didn’t think it was,” she said with a wink directed at Isabelle.

“N-no, seriously, it isn’t,” he insisted.

Bertie tapped the end of her nose. “So you’ll be wanting separate checks?”

Willing himself not to blush any worse than he already was, Griffin forced himself to give a jerky shake of his head. “No . . . i-it’s just not a date.”

She stared at him for a long moment—he could see the amusement in her expression. “All right,” she agreed at length. “What’ll you have?”

“I’ll, uh . . . the crab platter,” he mumbled, avoiding the woman’s discerning gaze.

“All right,” she said with a nod. “House chowder and a salad?”

“Sure.”

“And you, sweetie?” Bertie asked, turning her attention on Isabelle.

Isabelle offered the woman a wan polite little smile and handed her menu over. “I think I’ll have the same,” she replied.

“Good choice. House chowder and salad?”

“N—” Isabelle began.

Griffin snorted as Bertie took his menu. “Yes.”

Isabelle wrinkled her nose but didn’t argue with him.

“All right, then. It’ll just be a few minutes. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Diet Coke,” Isabelle ordered.

Griffin shook his head, not that she noticed. “Iced tea,” he mumbled.

With another quick wink, Bertie hurried away.

Isabelle sighed and sat back, rubbing her forearms through the soft sweater that she’d changed into. “I meant to tell you,” she said softly, her smile fading though her eyes remained bright, “thank you.”

He blinked a stared at her for a moment. “For what?”

She shrugged, idly fingering the edge of the paper napkin arranged under the silverware. “For listening,” she said as though it were the simplest thing in the world. She sighed suddenly and shook her head as a hint of pinkness seeped into her cheeks, and she ducked her head, refusing to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry for earlier . . . I don’t know what came over me . . . I never cry—well, not like that . . .”

Griffin shifted almost uncomfortably, reaching over to adjust his cane for want of something better to do. “Yeah,” he grumbled, wondering absently if she could sense his discomfort or if she was too deep in thought to notice anything at all. “Just don’t make a habit of it. I don’t have flood insurance on the house.”

Her soft laughter was his reward, and he swallowed hard, realizing somewhere in the back of his mind that he’d missed that sound in the last couple of days. The warmth of her smiles, the way her eyes seemed to take on an incandescent glow. . . If her laughter was a color, it’d be a sunny yellow, wouldn’t it, and the brilliance that seemed to emphasize every single thing she did had reminded him of things that he used to believe were long dead to him; of cherry blossoms and spring breezes, and the softest chime of laughter that lingered on the wind. Isabelle had brought these things back to him . . . and that bit of knowledge . . .

It scared the hell out of him.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
>  _At least she stopped leaking …_


	25. Silver Bells and Mistletoe

Isabelle stepped out of the restaurant and smiled as the sound of tiny silver bells greeted her. Something about the gentle chimes always had struck her as a friendly sort of thing, reminding her of simple times and soft laughter; of the warmth and good will of the holiday season. Stopping beside the bright red bucket suspended from the metal hook stand, she dug through her purse for money as Griffin followed her outside. It only took a moment for him to figure out what she was doing, and with a shake of his head and a sigh, he dug out his wallet and dropped a twenty dollar bill into the bucket.

“Thank you! I hope you and your girl have a happy holiday!” the black man in a Santa Claus suit said with a broad grin. The brass bell in his hand stopped ringing long enough for him to shake Griffin’s hand.

“Sh-she’s not my girl,” Griffin muttered, a startled sort of expression surfacing on his features as his cheeks reddened at the suggestion that they might be a couple.

Isabelle smiled and winked at the would-be Santa. “Merry Christmas,” she said as Griffin grabbed her arm to drag her away.

His laughter echoed behind them as he resumed the ringing of the bell.

Griffin grimaced and gave his head a good shake. “That sound just gets stuck in my ears,” he remarked when he realized she was staring at him.

“Your ears bother you?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Not really . . . you telling me that it didn’t bother you?” he countered with a quizzical glance.

“I suppose,” she agreed then shrugged inwardly. He was leaning rather heavily on his cane—more heavily than he had on the short walk to the restaurant, and she wondered with a frown if he was pushing himself too much again. The memory of the night he’d taken off into the forest without his cane still bothered her. She knew damn well that he was too stubborn to admit that he was in pain, even if he had promised not to keep it a secret from her anymore . . .

“Tell me something?”

She blinked and glanced up at him only to find him staring off into space. She could see the faint hint of stubble thickening on his jaw line and smiled. He’d shaved just before they’d left the house, and she’d noticed before that Griffin’s facial hair tended to grow unbelievably fast. He’d have a full beard in a few days if he stopped shaving, she supposed, but it didn’t bother her. She rather liked the rugged sort of quality it added . . .

“Okay,” she agreed, careful to keep her tone neutral.

“You’re Japanese, right? I mean, you grew up there . . .”

His question surprised her. She’d never kept that a secret, of course, but he’d never really asked her anything that could be considered a personal question before, either, and that he would choose that one . . . well, it amused her. “Yes,” she replied.

He grunted softly, more of an acknowledgement than a sound of disapproval. “Why don’t you have a thicker accent?”

She smiled, figuring that was a fair enough question. “Well, Mama’s American,” she explained, “and she speaks in English a lot . . . She’s picked up a lot of Japanese, but she always wanted to make sure that we all knew English, and Papa encouraged it, too.”

He nodded slowly, as though her answer made a lot of sense. “That makes sense.”

“And I did spend a fair amount of time here, growing up,” she went on, her eyes glossing over as a million memories flashed through her head. Ice cream cones and beachside clam bakes . . . quiet walks with her grandfather through the dense forest that surrounded the Zelig estate . . . sharing jokes late at night near the fireplace while Grandma and she made s’mores over the small fire that Cain built up for them. Some summers were quieter than others—Bastian and Gunnar had alternated, training in Japan with InuYasha and Ryomaru, Toga and Sesshoumaru and Cain . . . During the summers when the boys were in Maine, they’d stay up way too late until they were yawning all morning during training and frustrating Cain to no end while Isabelle slept in all morning, only to wake up when Bastian, Gunnar, and Morio dumped water on her or worse . . . “It was pretty fun,” she confessed, the memories offering her a comfort that she welcomed. “I came here almost every summer, at least for a month or so, and then there were the holidays . . .”

“The holidays? You spent them here?”

She nodded. “Most of the time, Papa brought us here for Christmas,” Isabelle said as she and Griffin ambled along the sidewalk. “Mama always wanted to come home for Christmas . . . she said that Tokyo was nice, but nothing beat Christmas in Maine . . . I think she missed the snow . . .”

The tap of Griffin’s cane accompanied his shuffling footsteps. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here in the States,” he pointed out rather dryly.

She sighed and shrugged, adjusting the thick taupe scarf that hung loose around her neck. “I don’t know . . . I guess it just seemed like a good idea,” she ventured, her tone carefully neutral, as though she worried that Griffin would discern a little too much.

“So you traveled halfway around the world to go to college and start your career?” he countered with a shake of his head. “Try again, girly. I’m not buying.”

He really was too sharp for his own good sometimes . . . “I don’t know . . . I suppose Papa’s shadow was pretty daunting, too,” she allowed.

“The daughter of the famous researcher? I guess,” he replied, stopping to lean against the railing of the long boardwalk that ran the length of the river’s edge. The blackened waters below frothed and flowed, untouched by the coldness as the temperature continued to steadily drop.

Isabelle pulled her coat a little closer and let out a deep breath as she stepped up beside the bear-youkai to gaze out over the moonlit water. His silhouette, etched so deeply against the backdrop of the night clung to her mind, seemed to float before her very eyes. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected when she’d emerged from her bedroom, but he’d looked somehow different: a change that had little to do with the clothes he wore though he had changed into what looked to be a new white shirt and dark brown corduroy slacks. His hair was still damp, too, and meticulously brushed though she didn’t doubt for a moment that it’d be just as unruly as ever once it dried. For a bear, he certainly had fine hair . . . All clean shaven and neat, he looked completely nervous, too—and despite his insistence that it wasn’t a date, Isabelle had to wonder . . .

Shaking herself and sighing softly, she couldn’t help the wan little smile that twitched on her lips as she turned her face toward the moon, her skin tingling in the cold night air. “It’s sort of expected, I guess . . . You know, when you’re introduced to everyone as ‘Izayoi Kichiro’s daughter’ with your actual name being secondary . . .” She shook her head and laughed softly, almost sadly. “I guess I have really big shoes to fill.”

“Which was the reason you jumped at the chance to have a crack at the research,” he guessed, his tone indicating that he’d figured out as much long ago.

She grimaced, wondering if she was really as shallow as all that. “Sounds crass, doesn’t it? I mean, that’s part of it, I’ll admit, but this research could help a lot of people—hanyou . . . I’m lucky, or so I’ve been told. My grandmother’s miko blood has always kept our hanyou blood in check, but it’s not like that’s something that would matter to someone else. Without some sort of seal, the things a hanyou can do are so limited . . .”

He grunted, tapping the end of his cane against the bottom of the railing in an idle sort of way.

Leaning forward on the railing, Isabelle clasped her hands and stared over the water; the gentle ripples as the moonlight chased after itself on the surface of the roiling crests. “There was a hanyou, I remember . . . he wanted to be a hunter for Uncle Sesshoumaru . . . I was really little back then, but I remember hearing the adults talking about it. Even Grandpapa InuYasha was against the idea because of the lack of a restrainer to limit the hanyou’s youkai blood . . . They said it was too dangerous, that he’d be in trouble if things went wrong, and then he’d be a threat to both humans as well as youkai. They said that the risk of that happening might be small, but it was too much of a risk to take . . .”

He digested that in silence, and when she stole a peek at him out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t help the momentary tremor that erupted deep inside. The gentle breeze blowing off the river lifted the fine hair that always fell to cover his face, those shaggy bangs that she just wanted to touch while the light dancing off the water seemed to pool in his dark gaze, adding a dimension of light that lent him a far more melancholy sort of air . . . the sharp angles of his face, the pronounced hollows in his cheeks . . . even his scars seemed to have dissipated in the forgiving glow, and while Isabelle had come to cherish those marks, she had to wonder why it was that Griffin didn’t realize how very much he had to offer.

“Anyway, that’s neither here nor there,” she went on, forcing her eyes off the man in question. “If this research will help someone, then it should be completed, regardless of who does it.”

“Yeah, well, you won’t be able to if you give up,” he said, his tone a little gruffer than normal. “You know that, right?”

She sighed, nodding slightly as she stared at her hands at the reminder of the lost infant. “I know,” she said. “I just can’t help thinking . . .”

“If you start leaking again, everyone’s going to think I did something to you,” he warned.

She smiled despite her glum thoughts, knowing without having to look that the man was blushing. “I won’t,” she promised, abruptly pushing herself away from the railing. “Anyway, I think I want dessert.”

Griffin snorted, obviously relieved at the turn of conversation. “Dessert? You mean you didn’t have enough chocolate at dinner?”

She did laugh at that. Just remembering the look of absolute incredulous revulsion on Griffin’s face as he’d watched her dump pretty near a whole bottle of chocolate syrup onto the salad he’d made her eat was enough to elicit a fit of giggles on her part.

“ _If you don’t like it,” he’d said as she stared unhappily at the small garden salad the waitress had placed before her, “then get some dressing or something that you like_.”

 _Dragging her gaze off the salad, she quirked an eyebrow at him. “What kind of dressing did you get?” she asked_.

“ _Bleu cheese,” he replied as he stabbed some lettuce and lifted the bite to his lips_.

 _She made a face. “Moldy cheese? No thanks . . . that’s just gross_ . . .”

 _He set his fork down and rolled his eyes. “Then get Italian or ranch or vinaigrette . . . and stop complaining. Vegetables are good for you, unless you want scurvy . . . I hear it’s a great thing this time of year_ . . .”

 _She blinked in surprise—it was the first time she could recall Griffin being outright sarcastic. “Fine, fine,” she gave in with a sigh then snapped her fingers and broke into a smile before waving her fingers at the waitress_.

But he hadn’t said anything when she’d asked for chocolate syrup, and he’d only watched in silence as she added it to her salad. Of course, he’d looked like he was considering getting up and leaving, but he must have figured that at least he’d convinced her to eat the salad even if he did think that her choice of dressings was disgusting . . .

“It wasn’t bad,” she said, unable to help herself as she smiled when Griffin’s face contorted in a show of disgust spurned on by the memory of Isabelle’s salad. “I think I’d eat it more often if there was enough chocolate syrup on it to mask the taste of the greens.”

“And you think bleu cheese dressing was disgusting,” he grumbled with a shake of his head.

“It is,” she argued. “Eating chocolate is natural. Eating mold is not.”

He grunted, falling into step beside her as they wandered along the sidewalk once more. “You summarily undid all the good of eating a salad with that,” he pointed out.

Isabelle waved her hand dismissively. “Hey, I ate it, didn’t I?”

Griffin sighed.

A couple of women wandered past. It amused Isabelle when one of them kept looking over her shoulder, her gaze fixed on Griffin, and while the bear didn’t seem to notice, she certainly did. The woman wasn’t even trying to hide the appraising glint in her eyes, either, and she tapped her friend’s arm, who also turned to look—and stopped dead in her tracks for a moment as she stared appreciatively at the man in question. Isabelle couldn’t help the smile that surfaced as she squared her shoulders, unaccountably proud to be the woman walking beside Griffin. “You know, I think you have an admirer,” she murmured, leaning toward him as she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Huh?”

She laughed, jerking her head in the direction from which they’d come. Griffin shot her a narrow-eyed scowl but grudgingly glanced over his shoulder. With a loud snort, he whipped his head back around and quickened his pace just a little.

“Why are you rushing off? You should go back and introduce yourself!” she said, catching his arm as she hurried after him.

He snorted indelicately but didn’t shake her off. “Hardly,” he grumbled, his embarrassment palpable.

“Oh, why? They thought you were hot, you know.”

He uttered a sound caught halfway between a grunt and a groan and kept moving. “Think again, Jezebel. If you haven’t noticed, I get stared at because I’m . . .”

She frowned at the unspoken sentiment he left hanging in the air. “You’re _what?_ ” she asked, a warning hint creeping into her tone.

He snorted, obviously nonplussed by whatever mayhem she had in mind if he tried to put himself down. “I’m a bare step above Quasimodo, if you haven’t noticed,” he grumbled.

“That’s not true,” she said, her voice quiet, punctuated by the raw vehemence underlying it.

“Yeah, well, just drop it, all right?”

She heaved a perturbed sigh to let him know just what she thought of the situation but did as he requested, concentrating instead on the crisp breeze that ruffled her hair, that brought the clean scent of Griffin to her. It wouldn’t do any good for her to badger him at the moment, and she knew it. Still, she hated to admit defeat, damn it, and that was exactly what she felt like she was doing . . . “You know what sounds really good?” she finally asked, deliberately refocusing her attention before it completely ruined her fragile good mood.

Griffin shot her a sidelong glance but looked completely nonplussed, all the same. “What?” he finally asked, his tone stating quite plainly that he wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to hear what sounded good to her.

“Ice cream,” she stated.

He stopped short and narrowed his eyes on her like he was trying to decide whether or not she was being serious. “Ice cream.”

She nodded and grabbed his arm, tugging him toward the small ice cream shop on the other side of the street. She didn’t stop moving as she glanced both ways then stepped off the wooden planking. Griffin stared at her hand for a moment before heaving a sigh as he let her drag him across the pavement.

“Isn’t it kind of cold for ice cream?” he demanded though he didn’t try to stop her.

“Nope,” she insisted. “It’s never too cold for ice cream.”

He grunted.

“Besides,” she went on brightly, “even you can’t say no to ice cream.”

“Don’t know,” he mumbled. “Never had it before.”

She stopped and swung around to face him, her expression full of unmasked surprise. He could tell that she wasn’t sure whether or not she ought to believe him, and for some reason, he couldn’t help the slight rise in his defenses. “Never? As in, never ever?”

“Never ever,” he allowed.

“Wow . . . then I suppose I should pay for it,” she decided. “You’ll like it, you know. Bet they have butter pecan.”

Unwilling to admit that his interest was definitely piqued at the mention of butter pecan ice cream, Griffin settled for grunting again as she hustled him toward the candy apple red painted door of the building. “I said I’d pay,” he reminded her.

She laughed and reached for the old fashioned door handle. “You said you’d pay for dinner, and you did—thank you. I can pay for dessert.”

“Forget it, Jezebel. I’m onto your game,” he grumbled.

“My game?”

He nodded once.

She laughed softly, pulling open the door and stepping inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the brightness of the small ice cream parlor. The older man behind the counter looked up and broke into a welcoming grin. “Stop!” he called out suddenly.

Isabelle blinked and turned around to see what the guy was looking at. Griffin stood in the doorway with his hand on the handle, obviously caught in the process of pulling the door closed. He looked around slowly, as though he were trying to figure out what the man was talking about, too.

He chuckled then pointed upward. Isabelle looked again, slowly lifting her gaze only to break into a grin when she noticed just what the man was referring to. Standing where he was, Griffin was directly beneath a sprig of mistletoe, and when he noticed it, it wasn’t surprising to see his face slowly drain of all viable color before exploding in a livid and vibrant blush. Jerking the door closed with a very loud ‘bang’, he tried to hurry forward only to be stopped when Isabelle laid a hand on his forearm, leaning up on her toes to brush a chaste kiss over his cheek, much to Griffin’s chagrin and the man’s amusement.

“’Tis the season,” he remarked, still chuckling over Griffin’s obvious embarrassment.

Griffin snorted, unable to do anything about the crimson staining his skin as he avoided Isabelle’s gaze and lumbered past her, getting out from under the offending sprig as quickly as he possibly could. “Jezebel,” he choked out as Isabelle bit her lip and tried not to laugh outright. “What kind of ice cream do you want, fat ass?”

That did make her laugh, much to the man’s surprise. “What other kind is there?” she quipped, stepping up beside Griffin and winking at the man before glancing down at the freezer display counter. “Chocolate, of course!”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he grumbled.

“And he wants to try some butter pecan,” she added for good measure.

“Sundae or waffle cone?” the guy—his nametag said Brian—asked.

“I’d like a waffle cone,” Isabelle replied.

“Plain in a cup,” Griffin said.

“You could get chocolate and chopped peanuts on it,” she told him.

Griffin snorted and shook his head. “No, thank you.”

Brian laughed as he grabbed a waffle cone out of the glass display where the cones were kept atop the counter. “Regular chocolate or chocolate lover’s supreme?”

“Oh, what’s the difference?” she asked.

“Supreme has chunks of liqueur-filled chocolates and ribbons of semi-sweet chocolate.”

“Mm, that sounds good,” she said. “I think I’ll have that!”

“Special dark chocolate syrup?” he inquired as he scooped into the huge container of ice cream.

She stole a glance at Griffin who was frowning at the huge waffle cone in Brian’s hand. “That sounds wonderful,” she intoned.

Griffin rolled his eyes but didn’t comment while Brian finished filling Isabelle’s cone. She took it and reached for a plastic spoon from the recycled restaurant powdered creamer container beside the cash register. With a quick wink, she stepped back to wait while Brian dished up Griffin’s ice cream.

“Looking forward to Christmas?” Brian asked as he dug into the butter pecan ice cream.

Griffin shrugged. “Sure,” he replied though his tone was more of a grumble than usual.

Brian laughed. “My wife is more excited about it than most kids. She loves the holidays. She’s been trying to talk me into going with her to her grandparents’ house, but I don’t know about that . . .”

“Yeah . . .”

“Is this your first Christmas together?”

Isabelle hid a smile behind a spoonful of ice cream as Griffin shifted uncomfortably. “You could say that,” he allowed.

“Your girl’s a keeper,” Brian said with a conspiratorial wink as he leaned over the counter, obviously only intending for Griffin to hear the disclosure.

She didn’t have to see his face to know that Griffin’s face had taken on the reddened flush that he’d barely managed to get rid of after the mistletoe incident. Stifling the giggle that welled up in her throat, she wasn’t surprised to hear his choked sort of cough, to see the tensing in his back and shoulders. “She’s not—we aren’t—this isn’t a _date_ or anything,” he blurted.

The man seemed genuinely surprised as he leaned to the side to glance at Isabelle. She wiggled her fingers in greeting as her smile widened. He nodded and broke into a grin as he straightened his back and looked at Griffin. “You sure?”

Griffin snorted. “Very.”

“Does she know that?”

“Y-yes,” Griffin retorted.

Isabelle did giggle at that. He sounded entirely shaken, which was amusing, all things considered. It really _was_ a date, wasn’t it? The only one who didn’t seem to realize that was Griffin, and, well, Isabelle didn’t think she’d point it out to him, either . . .

Taking his cup of ice cream with a mumbled ‘thank you’, he paid for the treat and turned around as Isabelle wandered over to slip into a chair at a cozy little table near the plate glass windows that overlooked the river front. “Thank you for the ice cream,” she remarked, breaking off a bit of the cone and popping it into her mouth.

Griffin didn’t answer. He was scowling at the ice cream in the clear plastic dish. Slowly he lifted it to his nose and sniffed at it. He must have figured that it was safe enough. Scooping a small bite onto the spoon, he rather reluctantly stuck it into his mouth.

“Good?” she questioned when he didn’t say anything right away.

He took another bite and chewed slowly, as though he were considering his opinion. “Not enough pecans,” he mumbled.

Isabelle laughed since she could see the huge chunks—pecan halves—embedded in the ice cream. There were a lot of them, but of course he’d want more. She couldn’t help but be amused when he showed his weakness for all things pecan . . . “But you like it?” she pressed.

He grunted and kept eating slowly, as though he wanted his ice cream to last a while.

Isabelle wasn’t nearly as diplomatic as that. It didn’t take her long to polish off the ice cream and the waffle cone, and she stuck her spoon out to snag a bite of Griffin’s only to have her knuckles whapped with his spoon. “Back off, Jezebel. This is mine,” he informed her.

She laughed and licked the bit of melted ice cream off the back of her hand. “Aww,” she complained with an exaggerated pout. “Not even one bite?”

“Not even one,” he reiterated, scraping the last of his ice cream from the plastic cup. “If you want more, then get more, but don’t try to steal mine, you thief.”

“Hmm,” she drawled, considering his suggestion. “All right!”

She started to stand up only to stop when Griffin got to his feet, instead. “It’ll all go to your ass,” he remarked as he headed back toward the counter.

Isabelle smiled, propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin on her balled-up fist. Maybe he wasn’t the best at expressing himself, and maybe he was a little rough around the edges, but she didn’t mind; not really. After all, underneath that gruff exterior lurked a very sensitive man; one who seemed to understand her without any questions asked, at least when it came to the important things. Something about Griffin spoke to her—had always spoken to her in gentle whispers and muted sighs . . . and she knew deep down that he was the one she had been meant to find from the day she’d come into being . . .

He came back to the table, handing her another waffle cone sundae, and she couldn’t help but smile when she noticed that his bowl had two kinds of ice cream this time: pistachio and butter pecan. It was safe to assume that he enjoyed ice cream, and for some reason, she couldn’t help but be rather pleased that she was with him the first time he’d tried it.

“You want to try it?” she asked, extending a spoonful of chocolate dripping ice cream to him.

He made a face and drew back. “No,” he said flatly. “Absolutely not.”

She laughed since she hadn’t figured he’d want to. “So tell me something?” she asked just before stuffing the spoon into her mouth.

Griffin shot her a dark glance as though he wasn’t certain that he did want to tell her anything at all. “What?”

“You’ve been around while, right?”

He snorted at her indelicate jibe at his age.

Pointing her empty spoon at him, she went on, undaunted by his less-than-enthusiastic reaction. “Why is it that you’ve never had ice cream before?”

He looked surprised by her question, as though he’d fully expected her to say something entirely different. Thinking it over, he shrugged offhandedly, digging into the pistachio ice cream and savoring the first bite before answering. “Just never did,” he replied. “Never thought about it.”

“But everybody loves ice cream,” she parried. “It’s . . . it’s a global love type thing.”

“Global love, huh?” he muttered with a shake of his head. “I find that it’s much less complicated if I just stay in my little hole in the globe.”

“Funny . . .”

He blinked and swallowed, his gaze glowing like coals in the darkness. “What’s funny?”

She shrugged and waved off his question with a flick of her hand. “Well, not funny, I guess . . . it’s just . . . I always sort of figured you to be a worldly sort of guy . . . I don’t know why I always thought you had that look about you; like you’d been everywhere; seen everything . . .”

A strange sort of expression flickered over his features—the kind of expression she’d seen before when she’d once asked her grandfather, InuYasha about Kikyou—but he masked it quickly enough. “I’ve seen more than enough,” he said quietly; so quietly that she almost missed his words.

His tone, his demeanor, the sadness that crept into his eyes lent a haunted sort of quality to his expression nearly broke her heart, and deep down she knew—she’d known it for a while, hadn’t she? His scars . . . his nightmares . . . everything he was . . . it was all tied together, wrapped in the darkest of memories and in secrets he just didn’t feel worthy of sharing . . .

Staring at him in the quiet ice cream parlor as he pushed the plastic bowl away and scowled thoughtfully at the bright blue table, his words came back to her in a rush, in a whisper, in a gale so strong that it sent shivers down her spine, howling in her ears as surely as the wind of a winter blizzard.

“ _Are you so arrogant that you really believe you’re the only person who ever . . .?_ ”

Swallowing hard, blinking back sudden tears that sprang into her eyes, she finished his sentence in her mind.

“ _Are you so arrogant that you really believe you’re the only person who ever felt responsible for the death of someone else . . .?_ ”

She stole a peek at him through the thick fringe of her eyelashes and winced. ‘ _Griffin . . . what really did happen to you . . .?_ ’

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
> … _It’s … not … a … date_ …


	26. Incandescence

Griffin grimaced, rubbing his right shoulder with his left hand in an effort to alleviate the stiffness that had set in shortly after Isabelle and he had returned from dinner. He hadn’t pushed himself too far, but he had to admit that he was a little sore. Drumming his claws against the steering wheel of Isabelle’s car, he scowled at the hospital entrance and wondered if it wasn’t a mistake to let her go inside alone.

They hadn’t been back at the house for ten minutes when she’d hurried through the living room, stopping only long enough to grab her purse before heading for the foyer, and he’d followed her in time to catch her stooped over, tugging her shoes back on.

“ _I have to run past the hospital,” she reluctantly explained as he crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his gaze on her. “I need to check on her_ . . .”

 _He could tell from her expression that going back to the hospital was the very last thing she wanted to do, not that he blamed her. He didn’t figure he’d enjoy going back to the place where such hurtful memories lived, either, and as much as he wished he could talk her out of going, he also knew that she’d insist. It was her responsibility, after all, even if the very idea of doing it was enough to draw a marked grimace from her_.

“ _Give me the keys,” he mumbled, shaking his head and reaching for his coat_.

 _She stared at him for a long minute but did as he told her without comment_.

Letting out a deep breath, Griffin killed the engine and fumbled around for the door handle, deciding that the least he could do was to go inside and wait for her. He could understand the family’s anger at the situation—anyone would be upset—but he’d also be damned if he’d let them take their frustration out of Isabelle, either. She was a doctor, but she wasn’t a god, and it didn’t matter what she wished, she couldn’t change the past. She prided herself on her work; he knew that. There was no way she’d have overlooked anything in her treatment of the woman, of that he was certain. She cared about people far too much to do something as careless as that, and if she said that what she’d done was standard procedure, then he believed that, too.

He just started to climb out of the car when Isabelle stepped out from between the automatically sliding doors. She paused for a moment, rubbing her forehead, and despite the distance, he could sense her rising upset, but he got back into the car, unmindful of the terse little growl that rumbled out of him unbidden.

She dashed a hand over her eyes and lifted her chin proudly before squaring her shoulders and adjusting her grip on the black leather bag she had slung over her arm. Striding over to the car, she didn’t speak as she opened the door and slipped inside. “She’s doing better,” Isabelle finally said as Griffin started the engine and waited for her to fasten her seatbelt. “She’ll probably be able to go home tomorrow . . .”

He grunted.

She sighed, turning her attention out the window as he navigated the parking lot and turned out onto the street. “She blames herself,” Isabelle murmured softly. “I wish she didn’t . . .”

“Sounds familiar,” Griffin retorted almost mildly, squinting as the harsh street lights seemed to stab at his eyes. For some reason, they were worse on him than sunlight. He figured it had something to do with the darkness of the surroundings; the marked contrast in the prefabricated brightness of the streetlamps . . .

“I’d rather that she blamed me than herself,” Isabelle confessed softly. “The mind can do terrible things to people . . . the guilt and the recriminations . . .”

He didn’t respond to that. There wasn’t really anything to say. It was a true observation, after all. Sometimes, the recriminations and the self-disgust were worse than trying to believe that someone else had caused one’s misfortunes . . .

That was something that Griffin knew first hand, wasn’t it? No matter what he thought or wanted to believe, certain things just weren’t meant to be forgotten, and no matter how much time passed, the saddest truth of all was the inevitability of a lifetime of emptiness that couldn’t be avoided in an insular moment in time . . .

She didn’t speak again during the drive back to the house. Lost in her own contemplation, she could have been a million miles away instead of sitting right beside him. He didn’t like the feeling that he couldn’t reach her; that it wouldn’t matter what he said or did, that in the end, she was already just beyond his grasp, and for once he didn’t try to lie to himself, either. Even if it wasn’t something that could ever last, maybe . . . maybe at that time and in that moment . . . Maybe it was alright for him to want to bridge the gap . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

The unmistakable sound of labored breathing echoed in the silent room as the scent of two bodies; of passion and of sweat tingled in his nostrils. She’d been in town, and he’d needed the distraction. It had seemed like the natural thing to do . . . She keened softly, shaking with the tide of need, her ass as she reared back, her body meeting his. Holding onto her hips, fingers dug into the supple flesh, jaw ticking as he enjoyed the sight of her body bearing down on his, savored the unrelenting sultry heat that drew him deeper and deeper.

The soft trill of the cell phone split the stunted quiet, and he leaned to the side without breaking his rhythm, fumbling around for the device and squinted to make out the name that registered on the caller ID.

Myrna Loy.

Abruptly, Gunnar pulled out of Katarina and rolled aside, snatching the condom off as he gave the cell phone one good shake to slide it open as he headed for the bathroom without a second glance at the woman left in the middle of the huge bed.

“Find out something?” he demanded without preamble as he tossed the condom into the garbage can and made a face and snatched a thick white wash cloth off the shelf over the toilet in the starkly bright hotel bathroom.

“Maybe,” Myrna replied, her honey smooth voice just as dulcet over the phone as it was in person, “and good evening to you, too.”

Gunnar snorted, standing with his hand under the faucet until the water warmed a little before grabbing the washcloth and sticking it under the tap. “Yes, well, immaculate timing,” he said rather dryly as he wrung the cloth out with one hand and started to wash himself off with a grimace. He’d rather take a shower, but that’d just have to wait . . .

“Oh?”

“Hmm,” he countered. “Tell me why you called.”

She heaved a long sigh as he dropped the washcloth on the counter and strode out of the bathroom to locate his clothing. “Thought you’d want an update on the search for the Great Bear of Legend and Lore.”

Hooking the phone between his shoulder and the side of his head—good thing he had excellent hearing since the action muffled Myrna’s voice dramatically—he snatched his pants off the floor and pulled them on. “Go ahead.”

“As I told you, it’s slow going,” she remarked in a somewhat cryptic tone.

Gunnar’s expression darkened into one of irritation that he brushed aside since he knew damn well that Myrna never would have called him if she didn’t have something worth saying. “Spare me the sob story,” he grumbled, shrugging his shirt on before catching the phone with his other hand to repeat the process once more.

“Hmm, Gunnar,” Katrina protested from her place where she lay, curled on her side on the rumpled bed. “You’re not _really_ leaving, are you?” She’d tried to cover the sulky tone in her voice with a teasing sort of drawl, but he wasn’t dull enough to miss it. Even if he hadn’t heard it punctuating her words, the slant of the fire-youkai’s deep hazel eyes, the slight moue that pursed her pouty lips gave her away . . . Slowly turning his head, he pinned her with a blank stare, an almost bored sort of insignificance in his gaze, he very pointedly narrowed his eyes, and she paled slightly, drawing the sheet up over herself and swallowing so hard that he could see the motion of her throat. She was breaking the unspoken rules, and she knew it. Questioning him, demanding anything from him that he didn’t freely offer . . . it simply wasn’t acceptable. Satisfied that he’d made his point, Gunnar sat down to pull on his socks and shoes before standing up and grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair.

Myrna chuckled. “So how is your stock broker these days?” she asked, her amusement evident.

Gunnar didn’t answer as he strode across the floor and grabbed the door handle. “She’s just fine,” he replied, pulling the hotel room door closed behind him and heading toward the stairwell. Katarina’s scent still clung to him, and he made a face of obvious disgust. He’d be lucky if it came out when the clothes were cleaned—one more thing to add to his already growing sense of frustration. Katarina didn’t smell bad, no, but Gunnar also hated to have _anyone_ else’s stink clinging to him . . .

“She sounded a little upset with you,” Myrna pointed out.

“She’ll live, I assure you,” Gunnar stated as he took the stairs two at a time in his haste to get out of the building. “My car,” he said, lowering the phone as he stopped beside the hotel’s front desk.

“Right away, Mr. Inutaisho,” the receptionist demurred.

Myrna sighed again. “Are you so sure about that? If you really _are_ any good in bed . . .”

“Oh, I’m _damn_ good, Myrna,” Gunnar assured her, a trace hint of a smile quirking at the corners of his lips. “Anyway, that’s not really why you called me, was it?”

“No, it isn’t,” she agreed with a soft chuckle. “There were just a few interesting things I found as I navigated those websites.”

“Do tell.”

“I emailed what I found to you along with links and excerpts,” she chided.

Gunnar snorted. “I trust you’ve realized that I’m not at home,” he pointed out as he nodded at the doorman and strode out onto the sidewalk.

“I didn’t think you were,” she quipped. “You never take your ladies there, do you?”

“Having someone else’s stench in my bed isn’t exactly something that I’d prefer, no,” he agreed easily enough as he waited for his car to be brought around.

“You sleep with them but are concerned about their ‘stench’?”

Gunnar’s lip curled back in a derisive sort of grin. “I can tolerate it for brief amounts of time if the benefits outweigh the inconvenience,” he explained. “Besides, I have yet to hear any complaints.”

“You really are a bastard, aren’t you?” she mused drolly.

“Absolutely,” he agreed as the carhop stopped before the hotel in Gunnar’s shining black Jag. He slipped some bills into the young man’s hand and got into the vehicle, gunning the engine as he took off out of the parking lot. “About the legends?” he reminded her.

“Oh, those,” Myrna said, a hint of disgust creeping into her tone. “Well, as I said, I told you that it was going to be a pain, but . . . that aside, as I read through website after website, trite story after trite story, futile effort after fut—”

“I get the picture,” he cut in brusquely, pulling to a stop at a red light and drumming his claws against the steering wheel impatiently.

She chuckled—a husky sound that Gunnar was certain had gotten her a fair share of attention when she was able to roam freely. “Do you? Good . . . but then something occurred to me—it didn’t take that long, actually. See, every one of the stories that I found initially referred to the ‘scarred bear of the north’, so I started to reference the legends only to find that all of them were from websites based in the United States, with a couple notable exceptions originating from Canada or Europe but interestingly, the stories were all ones told to them by their relatives or friends who _lived_ in the States.”

Gunnar pondered that for a few moments then shook his head. “And your point is?”

Myrna ignored him as a somewhat gloating tone crept into her voice. “So I actively searched Canadian sites for the legend, and the most interesting thing happened.”

“What’s that?” he asked after counting to ten to cap his impatience. Myrna loved dangling information in front of his face, as it were. He’d have thought she was a cat-youkai instead of a hawk-youkai if he didn’t know better . . .

“The legends I found that originated in Canada . . . a couple did talk about the scarred bear of the north, but a few of them referred to him as coming from the east or the west . . . there was even one that talked about the bear from the south . . .”

“Good . . .” he drawled, his eyes brightening as he pulled into his driveway and killed the engine. “So you have a region?”

“A rough one,” she allowed. “I looked up some maps to see where the different sources lived—one of the legends was an Abenaki tale. Another was a different Native American tribe and so on, so I did a topographical overlay. The region I’m looking at is still pretty broad, but it’s a starting point . . . best lead we’ve had thus far.”

“Excellent,” he said—high praise from him. Dropping his keys onto the small table beside the door in the foyer, Gunnar kicked off his shoes and started unbuttoning his shirt as he headed straight for the stairs: his destination? The bathroom . . .

“I emailed all that to you, including the overlay map. Of course, there’s a bit of tolerance that must be considered since the regions are only rough average. Still, it’s a start . . .”

Gunnar pressed a button on the phone to transfer the call to his house intercom system and pushed the connector on the wall panel beside the bathroom door. “So tell me about these legends,” he said, smacking the phone against the heel of his hand to close the device before dropping it carelessly on the counter beside the sink. He turned on the shower taps and shrugged off his clothes, considering whether or not he ought to just throw out the outfit instead of bothering with trying to rid them of the offending odors.

“Hmm, you know, that’s the interesting thing,” she remarked almost absently. He heard the squeak of her chair as she stood up. It was drowned out moments later by the eruption of water from the shower as Gunnar slapped his hand against the control panel before sauntering out of the bedroom to look for a pair of hakama that he casually tossed onto the huge bed in the center of the room before heading back toward the bathroom once more.

“Interesting, how?” he asked when she didn’t offer any more information.

“Well,” she began with a brisk exhalation, “the legends run the gamut, you see. In some regions, he’s regarded as a saint, saving children from certain doom, driving away the evil spirits of the forest . . . in others he’s described as a monster, luring little ones away from their unwitting mothers and devouring them . . .”

“Okay, so that’s a bit of a stretch,” Gunnar grumbled as he stepped under the showerhead. It was true that he didn’t trust Griffin Marin, not at all, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to condemn him as a killer of pups, either . . .

“Yeah, I rather agreed,” she admitted. “Still, the way they all speak of him, it’s like he’s some sort of boogeyman.”

“Isn’t that what the youkai have been relegated to?” Gunnar countered, grabbing the bar of Ivory soap from the shelf and briskly washing his body.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those who disagrees with Sesshoumaru’s edict?”

He snorted indelicately as ribbons of soap suds sluiced down his chest, his legs. “Don’t lump me in with that lot,” he stated.

“Of course not,” she nearly purred, her amusement evident in her voice. “But you can see their point?”

He didn’t deign to answer that. It didn’t matter whether or not he could see their point. They called it the pride of the youkai, and they asserted that Sesshoumaru’s edicts had taken that away from them, and while Gunnar could agree in theory that youkai shouldn’t have to hide their natures, he also agreed that the idea of letting the human populace know of their continued existence would cause more trouble than what it was worth . . .

“Look, Myrna, I don’t have the inclination to argue politics or ideology with you,” he said instead, reaching for a towel as he stepped out from under the tap. “Schedule a time with my secretary after you’ve gotten more information for me.”

“No need to be obnoxious, Spot,” she retorted smoothly as Gunnar hit the panel to staunch the water flow. “Now that you’ve washed off the stink, I assume you’re going to look over the information I’ve sent you?”

“That was the plan.”

It only took him a minute to towel off, and he discarded the damp cloth on the floor beside his bed in lieu of reaching for the hakama. Ordinarily he would hang it up in the bathroom, but at the moment, he had bigger fish to fry, as it were.

“Yes, well, the good news is that there aren’t many youkai in the area. There aren’t many humans there, either, for that matter. The bad news is the same. It might take some doing to track down anyone that actually knows of this legend first hand,” she admitted, her tone full of disgust.

“What about your sources?” he demanded, striding out of the bedroom and down the hallway, taking the stairs two at a time as he headed straight toward his study.

“There’s only one guy who knows the region, and I’ve already asked him about Marin.”

Dropping into the thickly cushioned chair behind the wide desk, Gunnar snorted indelicately and opened the laptop. Seconds later, the window popped up announcing that he had four new email messages. He clicked on the message and waited for it to load. “Maybe he lied to you,” he remarked absently, frowning in concentration as he stared at Myrna’s email.

Myrna sighed. “Maybe. I considered that,” she allowed. “The thing is, he isn’t the type to hide things. I mean, if he doesn’t consider someone a friend, then he holds no allegiance to them. If he does, then he will defend them to the end, so if he is lying, then I can’t really think of a logical reason why . . .”

“Everyone is prone to lie if the circumstances are right.”

“Geez, pup, you really need to get out more. You’re way too cynical for your own good.”

“Oh? And you aren’t?” he parried, navigating through the attachments on the email. The only one he was interested in seeing was the composite she’d created . . . “Give me this guy’s name. I’ll see whether or not he’s lying.”

“Like I’d give up my sources to you,” she scoffed. “How do you think I’m able to do what I do? It’s because I don’t rat people out.”

“Hmm, and here I thought that it was an order, not a request,” he contended.

Myrna snorted. “Isn’t there a law against giving up sources?”

“Only if you’re a journalist . . . and only if you’re human.”

“I’ll try talking to him again,” she promised. “Other than that, you’re shit out of luck.”

“Keh,” Gunnar grunted, reaching out to tap the connection button on the panel built into his desktop. The intercom system went silent, and he let out a deep breath as he scowled at the email. As much as he hated to rely on something as unreliable as legends, he had to admit that it was the best lead they’d had so far. Now if he could only figure out how to fit together the things he knew, he’d be one step ahead of the game . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

He couldn’t settle down.

Pacing through the living room into the dining room and back again, Griffin had given up trying to work on the translation notes hours ago. He wasn’t sure why he felt so restless. He wasn’t even sure that there was an actual reason behind it all. No, he just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming; something he couldn’t touch or smell or see, but something . . .

He’d tried to convince himself that it was all his imagination; that the last couple days had been a little too stressful, that he was just overreacting because of it. Trouble was, he didn’t really believe that, either . . .

“ _You don’t understand . . . She kept . . . She kept saying that the baby . . . The baby looked like she was sleeping; just sleeping_ . . .”

Clenching his jaw so tightly that he could feel his teeth scraping together, could almost hear the groaning creak as the surfaces met, Griffin paced a little faster. She’d honestly thought that he didn’t understand . . .

No, damn it, the truth was that he knew better than he wanted to admit, especially to Isabelle, and as much as he wished it were otherwise, having to watch her cry and knowing well enough that there really wasn’t a thing he could do to comfort her had nearly been his undoing.

He stopped suddenly, dragging a hand over his face in a thoroughly defeated sort of way. He wasn’t supposed to want to comfort her. He wasn’t supposed to care at all. When had all of that changed? Somehow, he didn’t think he should even attempt to answer that question . . .

A soft sound drew his attention. His head snapped to the side as he scowled at the mocking silence. He’d heard it, hadn’t he? The smallest cry, as though it was stifled, and yet he had heard it. He _knew_ he had . . .

He scarcely realized that he was moving, striding through the room and down the hallway, his youki drawing him forward. He was compelled to go to her, wasn’t he?   Something in her aura was calling out to him. He could hear her in the depths of his soul.

Quietly pushing open the door to her bedroom, he flinched at the consuming sense of sadness that engulfed him. She’d been so tired after dinner that she’d barely been able to keep her eyes open, and in the end, he’d had to shoo her off to bed. She’d seemed a little reluctant, not that he could really blame her. As if she’d known that she’d find no peace, even in sleep, she’d stubbornly lifted her chin and headed off toward her room without saying a word . . .

And now he regretted it. To be honest, he’d been hard pressed not to call her back at the time. He’d wanted to. Watching her go cloaked in silent dignity, he’d opened his mouth to tell her that maybe she should stay close to him, and yet something had stopped him.

The moonlight filtering through the window cast bluish shadows on her face. Curled up on her side, her arms wrapped around her drawn up knees—what was it that they called that? Ah, yes, he remembered: the fetal position. It was somehow appropriate and completely ironic, given the circumstances, and it only took him a moment to ascertain that she was sleeping, albeit fitfully, but the sadness in her youki burned him.

She whimpered quietly, her youki constricting around her with the palpitations of her heartbeat. Whether she was reliving the ordeal that had affected her so deeply or she was battling the inner demons that Griffin knew only too well, she seemed to diminish in his eyes, shrinking into herself and seeking whatever comfort she could find within.

It was worse than seeing her cry; so much worse than hearing the piteous sounds of her inner turmoil being manifested. She’d said it, herself, hadn’t she? The mind could do far more damage than anything else could possibly inflict . . .

And it hurt. God, it hurt, bringing on more pain than Griffin could stand, leaving him raw and bleeding. Digging his claws into the callused flesh of his palms, he tried to resist the need to go to her. Lingering in the doorway, he bit his lip, his fang sinking in deep. The thin strands of reason, every single excuse he’d ever made to keep her at bay, snapped one by one, melting away before he had a chance to latch onto them, until all he knew, all he could comprehend, was the consuming compulsion to comfort her, to chase away the ghosts that he couldn’t see.

Stumbling toward her, across the woven rug that covered the hardwood floor, he heard the soft keening sound that escaped him, grimaced as her upset wrung a half-sob from her. Pausing for a moment just to stare at her, her misery so poignant, so biting that his mind reeled with the inane sense of a man possessed, he reached for her with trembling hands, carefully scooping her up, cradling her against his chest as he tried to ignore the nagging feeling that she felt absolutely perfect in his arms as he sank down on the bed, cuddling her against him, smoothing her hair as he let his head fall back against the chunky wooden headboard with carvings of tiny birds, of cherry blossoms, of a grassy knoll that he saw every night in his dreams . . .

Uttering a stunted breath, she slowly relaxed against him. She didn’t wake up. She didn’t have to. As though she could sense his proximity, he could feel the tension in her body melting away like ice in the springtime, and while her breathing remained stilted and harsh, she slept . . .

He shifted uncomfortably, his hip throbbing as the dull ache escalated. Certain positions always seemed to give him more trouble than others, and lying at the angle he was just wasn’t agreeing with him in the least. Still to his sheer amazement, his proximity was offering Isabelle a semblance of comfort, and while he didn’t try to flatter himself into believing that he was the reason she was able to rest a little easier, the warmth that ebbed through him—cautious and stunted but present nonetheless—was an entirely foreign if not completely welcome sensation.

The choking hold of her youki gradually loosened, the tendrils stretching, reaching out to him with invisible fingers, with the same gentleness that delineated everything Isabelle was. With the softest sigh, she shifted slightly, the warmth of her cheek emanating through his shirt, penetrating his very core while she huddled against him, unconsciously seeking the shelter he grudgingly offered her. A long-forgotten feeling flickered to life; the lingering remains of a bittersweet memory; of another whose laughter had been able to warm the depths of him, to fill him with a sense of well-being that could banish the darkness in a time and place when he hadn’t yet realized that the world was ugly and that he was damned . . .

His arms tightened around her, drawing her closer: close enough to feel the beat of her heart striking a rhythm that met his, matched his; a gentle strength that was so familiar to him that it hurt. The fierce need to protect her precluded all else, obliterating the need for self-preservation, shattering the resolve that had been his only real buffer against her for so long, and maybe he’d known from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her that it was inevitable. Maybe he’d known exactly what she had always claimed, even if he’d never wanted to admit it . . . even if there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it . . .

Opening his eyes for just a moment, he winced and squeezed them closed once more. She was radiant, brilliant in the shadows of the moonlight filtering through the window, and she looked like an angel to him, and while he’d given up believing in gods and devils long ago, the fanciful notion that someone could save him—that _she_ could save him—was appealing. The scent of cherry blossoms and the wild summer breeze filled his nostrils—the scent of her, so fresh and vibrant . . . and for the moment, he just wanted to know that she was near, if only for a moment; a heartbeat or a blink of the eye, to believe in miracles and redemption and beautiful things . . .

“D . . . Don’t leave me, Isabelle,” he whispered as a single tear squeezed out of the corner of his eye to trickle down his cheek. “Don’t leave me . . .”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _… Did he say …?_


	27. Lazy Sunday

Isabelle shuffled out of the bedroom stifling a yawn with the back of her hand, the floppy pink bunny slippers on her feet whispering against the floor.

Griffin glanced up from his desk. Judging from the looks of him, he’d already been up for a while. He didn’t comment though he did quirk an eyebrow at the ridiculous slippers before turning his attention back to the task at hand.

She spared a moment to offer him a warm smile before wandering toward the kitchen but stopped short as the scent of freshly brewed coffee assailed her nostrils. It surprised her that Griffin had made it for her. He normally complained about the ‘stinky crap’ that she chose to drink in the morning. That he would go out of his way to make sure that she had a fresh pot lent her a warm feeling that she just couldn’t quite credit.

‘ _He’s been different the last couple of days, hasn’t he?_ ’ her youkai voice pointed out.

Come to think of it, things _had_ been ‘different’, hadn’t they? It wasn’t something that she could put her finger on, exactly, but she’d noticed it just the same. There was a certain level of underlying curiosity that she’d sensed from him. As though he were watching her more closely than usual, she’d felt his gaze on her at odd times. When she looked at him, he invariably looked away. Still, she had to smile despite that. The clumsiness inherent in his attempts to comfort her warmed her through and through. Somehow he understood her upset and told her in his own way that she really didn’t have to blame herself, and even if she wasn’t completely ready to admit that there really wasn’t a thing she could or should have done differently given the circumstances, she also couldn’t help but feel for the couple and for their lost daughter.

The memories of that awful day still had the power to bring tears to her eyes—maybe they always would—and going to the hospital to check on Kristin had been the hardest thing she’d ever had to do. She’d sent her home yesterday after Kristin had agreed to make a follow up appointment in a week to make sure that everything was healing properly, but Isabelle hadn’t missed the coldness in her husband’s gaze, not that she could blame him for that, and while she was certain that she’d be exonerated of any malpractice should it come to that, the idea of being held scrutinized by her peers worried her.

But Griffin had gone out of his way to make her feel better, hadn’t he? She’d known just how hard it had been for him to voluntarily go out with her, known deep down that it wasn’t so much her as it was the idea that he’d be gawked at that ultimately bothered him, and he’d done it anyway just to cheer her up. She loved him for that. She loved him for so many things . . .

And then there were the nights . . .

She wasn’t exactly sure what had drawn him into her room the first time; the night after he’d taken her out to dinner. He wasn’t there in the morning when she woke, either, not that it mattered. She could smell him fresh on the bed sheets as much as she could feel the warmth of his youki lingering in his wake, and she’d understood that he’d gotten up only moments before—maybe it was the soft click of the door closing behind him that had ultimately roused her. She didn’t remember anything about her dreams, and yet the sound of a soft, desperate voice whispering in her head had lingered: ‘ _Don’t leave me, Isabelle . . . don’t leave me_ . . .’

She’d sensed the same presence yesterday morning and even a few minutes ago when she’d finally opened her eyes though she had to admit that his aura wasn’t nearly as strong this morning as it had been on the preceding ones.   In any case, she didn’t let that daunt her. She was definitely making progress, and that was the only thing that really mattered . . .

Swallowing the suspect lump that rose in her throat to choke her, Isabelle pulled a rough earthenware mug from the cupboard. It wasn’t the first time she’d noticed that almost all of Griffin’s dishes were homemade. She’d noticed the kiln behind the house the day after she’d come to stay with him, and somehow the idea that he’d made the items didn’t really surprise her. That was his way, wasn’t it? Gruff yet gentle, hiding his true nature behind a mask of dry humor and rarely saying the things that he felt inside, he had a way of stating the opposite whenever he was pressed to give voice to his emotions. She wasn’t sure when she’d first realized that, either. What he said and what he wanted to say . . . they were always two different things but that was all right with her. She understood him.

And maybe he understood her, too. Maybe he’d known that she’d sorely needed to be close to another person, and maybe that was the reason he’d started coming into her room at night. She vaguely recalled the nightmare that he’d managed to chase away. More of a distorted sense of foreboding than an actual evil that she could see, it was Griffin who had soothed her upset; Griffin who had quieted her. She couldn’t remember having any bad dreams after that, and yet he’d come to her anyway, or maybe . . . maybe his very presence had the ability to circumvent those dreams . . .

‘ _Don’t be too quick to believe that Griffin really said that to you_ ,’ her youkai pointed out in a cautionary tone. ‘ _It could have been part of your dreams, you know_.’

Her smile widened as she poured a mug of coffee and stood on tiptoe to reach the sugar bowl in the cupboard—Griffin had moved it yesterday after stating that she ingested way too much of the sweetener. ‘ _It could have been_ ,’ she allowed. ‘ _It was so real, though_ . . .’

‘ _Which still doesn’t mean that it was. Besides that, even if we are making progress with the man, don’t you think that we ought to be careful? I mean, you know how he is. All it’d take is one moment of saying or doing the wrong thing, and we’ll be right back to square one_.’

Letting out a deep breath, Isabelle measured out a couple spoonfuls of sugar and stirred the coffee slowly. ‘ _As true as that may be, you know as well as I do that he’s been coming into my room in the night, so I’d say we’ve made more than a little progress_.’

‘ _Sure, just don’t get too complacent,_ ’ her youkai agreed.

“Hurry up and drink that,” Griffin rumbled as he stepped into the kitchen and lumbered past her to rinse his tea mug in the sink.

“Oh? Do we have plans for the day?” she teased, turning around and leaning against the counter as she lifted the coffee mug to her lips.

“ _We_ don’t, but _I_ do,” he retorted. “I want you out of the house in an hour.”

“An hour?” she echoed, eyebrows disappearing under her golden bronze bangs. “Why the rush? And why every Sunday morning?”

He snorted and set his mug on a clean towel beside the sink to air dry. “None of your business,” he informed her brusquely.

“Hmm, careful or I might get jealous,” she parried, pinning him with a wide-eyed, innocent stare. “Do you have a secret lover that you haven’t told me about?”

He blushed. She figured he would. “Just make sure you’re gone,” he grumbled, turning on his heel and stomping out of the room once more.

She sighed and shook her head, wondering how difficult it was going to be to get the truth out of the stubborn man. Pausing long enough to refill the mug before hurrying after Griffin, she followed him to the closed bathroom door. She heard the faucet turn on then off again, followed by the distinct thud of something being tapped against the porcelain sink, and deciding that Griffin was decently covered, she pushed open the door.

He blinked and shifted his gaze to the side, lowering the old fashioned razor that he had poised to make the initial stroke against his cheek, his eyes darkening menacingly as he lowered his chin to glower at her. “Don’t you possess even a modicum of propriety?” he grouched.

She giggled. She couldn’t help it. The fierceness of the expression was hidden in the froth of thick white shaving lather that coated Griffin’s face. “Now you look like a snow bear,” she commented with a saucy grin.

Griffin snorted indelicately. “You shouldn’t try to be a comedienne. It doesn’t work for you. Now get out of here, will you?”

“Not until you tell me why you’re in such a rush to get rid of me,” she countered, setting the coffee mug aside and reaching for the razor. He held it up out of her reach and snorted indelicately when she grabbed his arm in both of her hands and tugged hard: hard enough to bend his elbow, and she pulled the razor out of his grip before scooting up onto the counter.

“If you think I’m letting you anywhere near me with that, then you’re crazy,” he mumbled.

“Are you scared?” she retorted mildly, grabbing his sleeve and tugging him closer, rolling her eyes in an exaggerated show of impatience. “Oh, please! I’m a _doctor_ , remember?”

He snorted again, and she had to wonder if he was blushing under the lather . . . “You’re not a surgeon, _Jezebel_ , and you’re not going to hone your skills on my face.”

“As if I would hurt you!” she scoffed.

“Don’t think I have enough scars already?” he shot back.

She laughed softly and tugged harder on his sleeve. “Don’t be such a baby, Dr. Marin . . . Besides, I did my rotations, you know.”

“ _Surgery_ rotations?” he countered.

“And I got lots of practice on cadavers in med-school.”

“Not at all comforting,” he growled, trying to snatch the razor and missing.

“If you tell me why you’re always so anxious for me to leave on Sunday mornings, I’ll give you back the razor,” she purred, pulling Griffin close enough to lock her ankles around his waist before she broke into an entirely catty sort of grin, “or not . . .”

She didn’t have to see through the foam to know damn well that the man was blushing. Uttering an irritated, half-choked sort of growl, he seemed to be frozen to the spot, unable to process the simplest of thoughts, unable to grasp the idea that he could very easily get away from her. After all, he had to be stronger than she was, didn’t he? “ _Jezebel_ ,” he nearly wheezed.

She took full advantage of his momentary lapse to pull him even closer, carefully lifting the razor and scraping it down his right cheek. “Why is it that you don’t use a regular T-razor?” she asked absently, gently tipping his chin so that she could get a better angle for the next scrape.

Griffin grunted, his gaze shifted to the side, trained on the antique handled razor she held in her hand. “Never tried one,” he confessed. She could sense his discomfort, as though he actually thought she was going to cut him, and she spared a moment to offer him a reassuring smile before scraping his cheek once more.

“You know, if you didn’t shave, you’d probably have a full beard and mustache within twenty four hours,” she mused, leaning to the side to rinse the blade before carefully shaking off the droplets of water and resuming her task once more.

He snorted in response but didn’t relax; his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously as she slowly, methodically, worked.

“So?” she prodded at length a she turned his face to start on his left cheek.

“So, what?”

She smiled. “So . . . why are you so gung-ho on giving me the boot today?”

He blinked and shook his head, the scowl settling over his features once more as he snatched the razor out of her hand and shoved her legs away. “I can finish this,” he grumbled. “You need to hurry up and leave.”

“Not until you tell me why,” she pressed, stifling the sigh that welled up in her. She’d enjoyed being so close to him, and the loss of it was a harsh thing.

Casting her an exasperated glance, he dropped the razor on the counter and planted his hands on his hips, shaking his head slowly and looking for all intents and purposes like he was about to turn her over his knee. “Can’t I have any privacy?” he grouched. “ _One_ day, Isabelle . . . just _one_ day, and—”

“Okay, okay, you win,” she relented, scooting off the counter and lighting on the floor. “Am I supposed to go anywhere in particular or it doesn’t matter so long as I’m not here?”

He grimaced at the nonchalance in her tone, snatching up the razor and turning it over in his hands a few times, avoiding her gaze as he shrugged. “I don’t care . . . Go shopping or something. Just don’t come back until at least noon.”

“Noon?”

“Noon.”

“All right,” she agreed as she turned toward the door and grabbed her coffee mug. “Don’t miss me too much!”

His answer was a pronounced snort, and she had to laugh when she heard the bathroom door close and lock behind her . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Jillian yawned and stretched, smiling as a sense of lethargy filled her with a contented warmth. It was a Sunday morning feeling, she thought, refusing to open her eyes. The warmth of the body beside her made her smile widen, especially since she knew without looking that it wasn’t her mate sharing her bed . . .

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Evan Zelig’s voice cut through the comfortable quiet of the bedroom.

“Hmm, why?” she protested, rolling toward her brother and snuggling against his side.

“Yeah, yeah, I need your help,” he contended, wrapping his arms around her casually and giving her a little squeeze. “It’s about Cain’s Christmas present . . .”

“Oh? What _are_ you going to get Daddy this year?”

“That’s the thing,” he admitted with a sigh. “I’m not sure . . .”

“Okay, okay,” Jillian agreed with a yawn, reluctantly opening her eyes as Evan rumbled out a soft chuckle. “Hey . . . where’s my mate?”

“Answering the door,” Gavin replied, shuffling back in the room, the flannel pants he’d obviously grabbed to tug on before he’d gone to do that riding low on his lean hips. “Get out of my bed, Zelig,” he said, sinking down on the opposite side of his mate. “The last thing I smell before going to sleep sure as hell shouldn’t be you.”

Jillian wiggled around, ferreting away from her brother’s grasp that tightened instantly the moment she’d started to revolt. With a giggle, she spared a moment to kiss his cheek before defecting for the other side of the bed and the open arms of her husband who kissed her forehead despite the telling blush that rose in his cheeks. “Morning, Jilli.”

“Morning, Gavvie,” she replied, kissing his cheek quite soundly before snuggling against him and closing her eyes once more.

“Yeah, yeah, do that later,” Evan said, raising his voice to an obnoxious level as he sat up and swung his long legs off the bed. “We got bigger fish to fry. I’m stealing your mate for a while,” he declared, reaching back for Jillian’s hand.

“I haven’t gotten my morning lovin’s,” she protested, much to Gavin’s absolute chagrin.

“There are some things that he just doesn’t need to know,” Gavin pointed out with a raised eyebrow despite the darkening flush staining his skin.

“But I’m pretty sure that Evan knows we have sex,” she pointed out reasonably.

Gavin groaned and tugged a pillow over his head as Jillian laughed and let Evan tug her to her feet. “I thought about making a huge-ass cake and having Mama pop out of it, but you know, Cain’s old . . . he’d probably have a heart attack and die which would make Bubby tai-youkai, and he’s already insufferable enough without adding that to the equation . . .”

“Hmm, Daddy’s not that old,” Jillian countered as Evan escorted her toward the master bath, ignoring the foreboding look that was being directed at him since Gavin wasn’t overly fond of the idea of any man—sibling or otherwise—sitting in the room while Jillian bathed.

Gavin heaved a sigh and sat up, wondering exactly why he’d bothered to answer the door. All he’d wanted was a nice, quiet Sunday morning alone, in bed with his mate. Then again, if he hadn’t answered, Evan would have probably done something insane, like jimmied the lock or something . . . He was a bit of a nuisance that way . . .

No, he might as well give up on the idea that he’d get to spend time alone with Jillian. She’d insisted on staying in Maine between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, probably because she still felt more than a little guilty for wanting to talk to Avis about her biological parents. Still, Gavin hadn’t minded—even if Evan was harder to get rid of than athlete’s foot in a high school locker room . . .

Discarding the flannel pants he’d hastily pulled on when Evan had knocked on the door, Gavin grabbed a pair of Levi’s out of his drawer and tugged them on over his underpants and was just pulling a short sleeved button down off-white shirt on when the telephone rang.

“Hello?” he answered, grabbing the receiver on the nightstand.

“Hello, Gavin. How are you?”

Gavin frowned thoughtfully as Dr. Avis’ voice registered in his head. “Fine, and you?” he asked, unable to ignore years of his mother’s insistence that he always be polite.

“Good, good . . . I wondered if Jillian was available?”

Frown deepening at the strange sort of underlying strain in the doctor’s tone, Gavin crossed his arms over his chest and rubbed the center of his chest with his knuckles. “Uh, no . . . she’s taking a bath at the moment . . .”

“Oh, I see . . . Well, that’s fine,” he said heartily—a little too heartily, at least to Gavin’s ears. He paused a moment before going on. “You know, I was wondering—just curious, mind—how the research was coming along?”

Narrowing his eyes as the distinct clatter of alarm bells rang in his head, Gavin shook his head. “To be honest, I couldn’t tell you,” he admitted, “and even if I could I don’t think that’s really any of your business, you understand.”

“Of course, of course . . . I, um . . . I just wanted to wish you both a merry Christmas,” Avis blurted.

“I’ll pass it on,” he said.

“Yeah, thanks,” Avis intoned. “Um, bye.”

The line went dead as Gavin muttered, “Bye.”

It _was_ strange, wasn’t it, and it wasn’t all in his head, either. Avis had sounded . . . anxious? But why?

He didn’t have time to ponder that when the bathroom door opened and Evan swaggered out of the room with an entirely too-bright smile as he casually leaned back against the bureau beside the door, crossing his arms and ankles as the damning grin widened. “So, _Gavvie_ . . . feel like helping me with Cain’s Christmas present?”

“No,” Gavin said slowly. “I don’t think I would . . .”

Evan’s only response was a soft, lazy chuckle—one that Gavin had learned over the years just never boded well for him . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle knelt down in the snow and drew a deep breath as a little smile surfaced on her face. ‘ _Tinkerbell perfume and baby lotion . . . He’s cheating on me,_ ’ she thought with an inward giggle as she stood up and brushed the snow off her knees.

It wasn’t difficult to figure out. Judging from the small footprints in the fresh snow beside the newly shoveled path, Isabelle could tell that Griffin did, in fact, have guests—very small guests, judging from the looks of it—and a lot of them, to boot . . . What she didn’t understand was why there were so many of them.

Then again, she had yet to spend a Sunday morning at home, didn’t she? She’d met Jillian for breakfast a couple of times, and last week she’d been at the hospital delivering a baby. When she was still working at the hospital she’d had to work most Sunday mornings, and she remembered driving down to see Grandma and Grandpa on the Sunday after Thanksgiving . . . and all of those times, she’d smelled and felt the presence of other people—children—in the house when she returned, but she’d never really thought to remark on it.

Slowly her smile widened. He had been afraid to let her meet his children, hadn’t he? Whether he thought she’d tease him or because he would be uncomfortable she understood his weird behavior.

Pushing her sleeve up, she shook her wrist and sighed as she checked the time on her watch. She hadn’t meant to make it back to the house before noon—Cinderella in the daylight hours—but she was a few minutes early though she’d wasted a few of those minutes investigating the footprints in the snow . . .

But the smile she’d been wearing since the discovery of the little girl’s scent didn’t dissipate. Somehow the idea of seeing Griffin surrounded by pups . . . well, it was an altogether too-pleasant image, and that he loved children was a thought that pleased her more than she could credit.

Still she waited until her watch read noon before she reached for the door handle, ignoring the voice in the back of her mind that told her that there was a good chance that Griffin meant for her to stay gone until after the children went home and that the noon deadline wasn’t exactly set in stone. Still the desire to see Griffin surrounded by children was just too great, and with that in mind, she pushed the door open and stepped into the warmth of the house, laughing softly at the array of children’s snow boots lined up neatly on towels arranged on the floor behind the door. “Honey, I’m home!” she called out, smiling to herself when the unmistakable din of the children who had all been talking at once slowly quieted. She kicked off her boots and stepped into the slippers that she’d left beside the door. She’d bought some Christmas presents, but she’d left them in the car, and since a few of them were for a certain bear-youkai, she figured they were safe enough right where they were at the moment . . .

So she stepped into the living room with a bright smile only to be greeted by about a dozen curious little faces, ranging in age from three to about six, she’d say, and it took a moment to find the girl she’d smelled outside. Sitting in Griffin’s lap with her hands covered in rough-looking whole wheat flour, she stared at Isabelle with wide, solemn brown eyes as her golden curls caught the watery sunlight filtering through the windows on the far wall. They were all wearing Griffin’s shirts over their normal clothes, which was a good thing, considering the mess they were making with their projects. The table was coated with flour, and there were bowls of dried fruits and colored rolled oats scattered around. All in all, it was a regular disaster area, but the children seemed to be having a good time, and it amused Isabelle that Griffin seemed to be taking the mess entirely in stride.

“Your wife’s home, Mr. Marin,” one of the older girls commented while the boy sitting beside her stared.

Isabelle laughed, unable to help herself, at the look of acute discomfort that registered in Griffin’s expression. “Uh, she’s not—she—we’re not married,” he blurted, face reddening with every word.

The girl didn’t look up from her task of smashing dough on the tabletop with the flat of her palms. “But that’s what Mommy says when she comes home,” she reasoned.

“Gimme the knife, Brandon!” a tow-headed boy interjected, holding his hand out to the boy beside him.

Brandon didn’t look up from the shape he was cutting in the dough on the table in front of him. “Wait your turn,” he mumbled. “‘Most done . . .”

With a smile, Isabelle hurried through the dining room into the kitchen to grab a couple more butter knives. “Here you go,” she said, handing the boy a clean knife.

“Thanks, Mrs. Marin,” he replied happily.

“She’s not Mrs. Marin,” Griffin nearly wheezed as he stood up and set the little girl back into the chair.

“Are you going to be Mrs. Marin?” one of the girls asked. She’d lost interest in the project.

Isabelle laughed, but Griffin snorted. “There isn’t going to be a Mrs.—”

“Mommy says it’s okay to live with someone when you’re gonna be married,” another girl quipped, smashing oatmeal into the surface of a slightly off-kilter star. “That’s why Dave lives with us.”

“But we’re not going to be—” Griffin protested, lifting his hands to rub his face only to notice the flour covering his palms. Scowling at his hands, he stomped off toward the kitchen to wash up.

“So what are you making?” Isabelle asked as she stepped over to peek at the children’s tasks, deciding that, as entertaining as the given line of questioning was, she’d do well to divert the attention before Griffin lost his composure completely.

“O-ma-ments,” the little girl who had been set aside when Griffin stood up commented, her face contorting with her effort to say the word she’d obviously just learned.

Isabelle giggled. “Ornaments? Wow . . . I’ll bet they’ll look great on your Christmas trees.”

“Don’t talk to them,” Griffin grumbled, lumbering back into the room as he dried his hands on a clean towel. “You’ll give them nightmares.”

She laughed at that. She couldn’t help it. “Will I?”

He grunted, reaching over the children’s heads to gather the earthenware bowls that they’d used to mix up the dough they were using for their ornaments. “Yes, you would,” he reiterated. “Put your ornaments onto the board there, and you can take them home next week.”

A couple of the children protested, saying that they weren’t finished but did as they were instructed anyway. Griffin ignored the protests as he continued to gather up the dishes.

“Here,” she said, stepping over to take the stack of bowls from him.

He shot her a suspect glance but let her take them before turning his attention back to the children once more. “Hurry up. Your parents will be here shortly, and you all need to wash your hands . . . and faces,” he added, quirking an eyebrow at a couple of the children who had managed to get flour all over themselves. “Just leave the shirts there by the door.

The little girl stood up in the chair and held her chubby arms out for Griffin, and Isabelle had to wonder if the shirt she wore wasn’t too long for her. In any case, she supposed it was a good idea that the child didn’t seem inclined to try to walk by herself, and to her amusement, the gruff bear-youkai didn’t hesitate as he strode around the table to carefully unbutton the shirt. “And you’re the messiest of them all,” he mumbled, his expression one of exaggerated distaste at the prospect of lifting the child up. She giggled loudly, throwing her arms around his neck and leaning toward him as though she were trying to kiss him. He leaned back, curling his top lip and wrinkling his nose in abject disdain, which only served to escalate her laughter.

‘ _He’s so good with children_ ,’ Isabelle mused, reminding herself that he’d probably say something if she continued to stand there and gawk at him.

‘ _He’s a man of many talents, isn’t he?_ ’

Smiling to herself as she wandered toward the kitchen, Isabelle couldn’t help the warmth that filtered throughout her body. Of course she’d known that he worked for one of the local preschools a couple days a week when he didn’t have classes at the university. Still, seeing Griffin interacting with the children was just so unexpected, and the obvious regard they had for him showed. Maybe it was the simple reason that, while children might stare, they were also faster to deal with certain things, like the scars on Griffin’s face that she knew only too well bothered the hell out of him. They didn’t see him as a monster, and they didn’t do more than ask a couple of questions. They hadn’t been taught that physical beauty meant everything, and they hadn’t learned that all people weren’t really created equally in the eyes of society, not that Isabelle believed any such thing, herself. No, but she could understand why Griffin tended to be so reluctant around other people, didn’t she? She’d been erroneously judged a few times in her life. Whether people looked at her and just saw another pretty face, or if they heard that her family name was Izayoi and drew their assumptions from that, it was just as daunting as having physical imperfections wasn’t it? Even then, she had to admit that Griffin’s scars . . . she loved them. He was a real person; a _genuine_ person, and while he was still a damn fine looking man, she had to admit that the scars really did add a certain air of mystery to the man, as well.

Setting the bowls beside the sink, she turned on the tap water to fill before heading back for the dining room once more.

Griffin was kneeling on the floor in front of the child, carefully unbuttoning the shirt she was using as a smock, and Isabelle couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up in her. Though he was scowling in concentration as he meticulously worked the buttons, the girl was staring at him in something akin to complete awe—hero worship, maybe, and while he didn’t necessarily see it or recognize it, Isabelle did. It was the same sort of look she could remember giving her own father so many times when she was younger. “There,” Griffin said, gently tugging the shirt off the girl before dropping it onto the pile beside the door. “Now go make your brother help you wash your hands.”

“Okay,” she agreed. Isabelle didn’t miss the hint of reluctance in her tone. “Bwandon!” she yelled, darting out of the dining room with her golden curls bouncing. “Help me!”

Griffin didn’t stand up as he pivoted on the balls of his feet to watch the retreating child.

“You never told me I had competition,” she chided, leaning in the doorway as she gazed at the man whom she adored.

He turned his head to glance at her out of the corner of his eye. “Thought I told you not to come back yet,” he grumbled.

“It’s after noon,” she replied.

He snorted to let her know that he wasn’t buying and pushed himself to his feet once more. “Jezebel.”

She laughed as she watched him stride out of the room, and judging by the direction of the children’s voices, she could tell that they were gathering in the foyer to put on their boots and coats. Their laughter seemed to echo through the house, leaving a warmth behind that couldn’t be seen but was there, nonetheless, a welcome intrusion on the pervasive quiet. It was the kind of warmth that only children could bring; the kind of feeling that only a child’s laughter could leave in its wake.

Froofie whined and barked by turns, too excited by Griffin’s guests than he couldn’t figure out exactly what to do with himself, and Isabelle smiled when the kitten—still nameless since they just couldn’t seem to agree on a name for her yet—poked her head out from under the chest of drawers beside the kitchen doorway.

With a contented sigh, Isabelle pushed herself away from the frame and turned around to wash the dishes. Funny how she’d never really noticed it before, wasn’t it? The children’s laughter . . . it made the house feel even more like a home . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _Younger women, huh_ …


	28. Skin Deep

‘ _How the hell did she talk me into this?_ ’

Griffin’s youkai snorted indelicately. ‘ _She guilted you, Griffin_.’

He grunted, grimacing as he caught a glance of his reflection in the floor length mirror on the back of the dressing room door. ‘ _Oh, yeah_ . . . that . . .’

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She hadn’t exactly guilted him, after all. No, what she’d done was much, much worse than that. Staring at him with those luminous golden eyes, her thick, sooty lashes fanning down over the tops of her cheeks as she blinked innocently at him, it had been plain, dumb luck that he’d finally given in to the urge that had been gnawing at him on the same day that she’d want to go Christmas shopping for her cousin . . .

“ _Griffin . . . I was wondering if you’d be willing to do something for me_ . . .”

“ _No,” he said without looking up from the translation notes he’d been sorely neglecting of late_.

 _She sighed. “I was prepared for that,” she said, leaning against the corner of his desk, “so I’ve prepared a counteroffer_.”

 _He snorted but did glance at her out of the corner of his eyes. “Let’s hear it, fat ass_.”

 _She laughed outright. It just never seemed to faze her whenever he called her that. “I’m willing to buy you all the butter pecan ice cream you can eat if you’ll help me out for a couple of hours._ ”

 _He thought it over then shook his head. “Nope_.”

 _Pushing away from his desk, she wandered idly around the room, clapping her hands together as though she were trying to come up with another means of coercion. Too bad he was onto her . . . “But you haven’t heard what it is that I’m asking you to do,” she pointed out in an overly reasonable tone_.

“ _Don’t need to. Whatever it is, it’s probably bad, Jezebel_.”

 _She rolled her eyes and kept pacing. “Good is overrated,” she asserted. He could hear the amusement in her tone_.

“ _Fine, fine. Tell me what you want so I can say no, and so you’ll shut up_.”

 _She drew a deep breath and giggled. “I need you to come with me to the store so that you can try on a few things so I can get a better idea of how they’d look on Bastian_.”

 _He dropped his pen onto the desktop with a clatter. “Absolutely not,” he stated flatly_.

“ _Oh, come on! You’re a tall, big man like him! It’s_ perfect!”

“ _Buy him a toaster,” Griffin muttered, cheeks pinking as he forced his attention back to his task once more_.

 _Isabelle laughed. “I doubt Bastian knows how to use a toaster. Besides, I—” Cutting herself off short, she paused for a moment—long enough for Griffin to start to think that maybe she’d given up on the ridiculous notion—before she changed the topic completely. “Griffin . . .?_ ”

“ _What?” he grumbled without looking back at her_.

“. . . _What happened to the garland?_ ”

“ _What garland?_ ”

“ _The one that was on the Christmas tree_.”

“ _Was there one?_ ”

“ _Yes_ . . .”

 _He was avoiding her, and she knew it. “Can you describe said-garland?_ ”

“ _Hmm . . . popcorn . . . cranberries_ . . . pecans . . .”

 _He stopped for a moment, his back stiffening almost imperceptibly before he forced himself to reach for the ink pen once more. “Don’t know what you’re barking about,” he hedged_.

 _She considered that, her feet whispering as she shuffled across the floor. “So you don’t remember the pecan and popcorn garland I strung together for the tree?_ ”

 _Griffin shifted his jaw to the side, digging a bit of pecan out of his teeth with the tip of his tongue. “Nope. Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?_ ”

“ _Re-e-eally . . . is that so?_ ”

“ _They say that the mind is the first thing to go,” he informed her_.

 _She didn’t speak for a moment, but he could hear her footsteps drawing near, and he went stock still when she leaned over his shoulder, her lips close to his ear, her breath stirring his hair . . . “Griffin?_ ”

“ _W-what?” he croaked out, desperately trying to ignore her very proximity_.

“ _Did you_ eat _my garland?_ ”

 _He repressed a shiver that trilled down his spine. “Nope,” he lied_.

 _She chuckled almost huskily. “Are you sure?_ ”

“ _Charlie did it,” he blurted, face erupting in violent color as he shrugged his shoulder a little too late to stave the woman off. The dog in question lifted his muzzle off of his paws long enough to glance at them, his tail thumping heavily against the floor while Griffin tried to brush off the unaccountable feelings of guilt at having blamed the dog for the misdeed_.

“ _Charlie, huh?_ ”

 _He jerked his head once in a nod_.

“ _Uh huh,” she nearly purred, her tone taking on a certain level of gloating. “And after I spent all afternoon making that, too_ . . .”

 _He grimaced since she actually had—pricking her finger about a hundred times while she worked on the string, mostly due to Griffin’s attempts to get the pecans away from her at the time. She didn’t miss his momentary lapse, either, damn it_.

“ _So you’ll go shopping with me?” she goaded_.

 _He heaved a sigh, knowing deep down that he had been beaten by his own greed_ . . .

. . . Which was exactly why he was standing in the middle of a four foot cubicle reluctantly tugging an uncomfortable sweater over his head so that she could get a better idea of how it would look on her cousin, or so she said.

The curt tap on the dressing room door startled him, and he winced as he groped for the knob and jerked it open, stifling a decisive snort at the maroon turtle neck dangling from Isabelle’s fingertip. “Forget it,” he stated flatly, tugging at the collar of the sweater she’d insisted he try on, “and if you buy this for your cousin, he’ll probably never speak to you again.”

She laughed and rolled her eyes, draping the vest over her arm before she stepped forward to adjust the sweater on his shoulders. “You look nice, you know,” she pointed out casually enough. “ _Really_ nice.”

“Have I told you recently that I think you should get your eyes checked?” he grumbled, unable to staunch the hotness of a flush that flooded his cheeks at her blatant compliment.

“Hmm, well, I’m not the only one who thinks so, either.”

“What?”

She tilted her head to the side, her eyes shifting to indicate a couple of women standing nearby who were staring at him rather unabashedly. Narrowing his gaze on Isabelle, he grunted something unintelligible and pivoted on his heel to return to the sanctuary of the dressing room once more, pausing just long enough to snatch the offensive maroon turtle neck from her slack fingers.

He wasn’t sure why Isabelle always had to point out whenever someone was staring at him. He knew damn well that people stared at him all the time. What he didn’t want or need was for her to make an issue of it especially when he knew—just _knew_ —that the only reason they were staring was because he was a bare minimum short of being considered a monster.

‘ _But she doesn’t think you are, you know_ ,’ his youkai remarked a little too casually.

Griffin snorted as he tugged the ungodly hot sweater over his head with a marked grimace. He was a little sore, and he knew it was because he’d been spending far more time in bed than he normally did.

‘ _Yeah, and about that_ ,’ his youkai went on. ‘ _Do you plan on sneaking into her room every night from here on out? Wouldn’t it be simpler to move her into your bedroom? I mean, your bed_ is _bigger . . ._ ’

‘ _Shut up_ ,’ Griffin grumbled, cheeks pinking at his youkai’s forward thinking. ‘ _It’s not my fault that she keeps having bad dreams_.’

‘ _Oh, so that’s your excuse? Really . . . and you realize, I don’t recall her making a sound at all the last couple of nights_.’

‘ _She did_ ,’ he insisted, scowling at a white linen shirt that Isabelle had handed to him just before he’d lumbered off to find the dressing room in the first place. ‘ _You must be hard of hearing_.’

‘ _Is it honestly that difficult to admit that you like being around her?_ ’

‘ _I don’t_ ,’ Griffin argued, ‘ _but if she starts leaking again, then I’ll be in trouble because I didn’t get flood insurance on the house._ ’

‘ _And I suppose it didn’t really make you feel like smiling when the cubs thought that she was your wife_.’

Jamming his arm into the sleeve and tugging the shirt up over his shoulders, Griffin snorted again. ‘ _That was just gas_ ,’ he commented dryly.

His youkai heaved a sigh but fell silent at long last, much to Griffin’s everlasting relief, and he let his breath out in a long gust as he eyed the turtleneck in abject disgust . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Avis stumbled through the house as he hurried to answer the door. He didn’t stop to turn on any lights though it was the middle of the night. The ruckus was too hard to ignore: the incessant pounding that echoed through his head.

His first thought had been that one of his neighbors was in trouble. After all, the woman next door had a young child, and the woman was confined to a wheelchair. Maybe she’d fallen or something. The boy was often knocking on Avis’ door, and it had struck him early on that the child was lonely since there weren’t really many other children his age in the neighborhood that Avis had seen.

But as he neared the doorway, he could feel the malignant force of the youki seeping through the unsealed jamb, and he slowed his step, unable to ignore the cold trepidation that crept up his spine. He knew that youki. He _feared_ it.

For a split second, he considered the idea of running away—of escaping out the back door of the small building, but knowing damn well that it would avail him little. No, he just couldn’t get away, and he knew it . . .

If he showed his fear, though . . .

He reached for the door handle, grimacing at the obvious shake in his hands but jerked back when the door crashed open. The hazy light from the yellow streetlights cast the intruder in a garish glow, a macabre presence that exuded a malevolent will. “F-Fellowes,” he murmured, unable to control the slight tremor in his voice.

Eaton Fellowes stepped over the threshold—more like glided over it, really—the jagged edges of his youki probing like viscous tentacles invisible to the naked eye, and Avis stepped back in a vain effort to alleviate the rising tension mounting in the air.

“Refresh my memory, Avis,” Eaton rumbled, a quiet purr underlying his words. The panther-youkai was enjoying the electric feel of Avis’ fear, wasn’t he? Feeding off it like a parasite . . . “Did you or did you not tell me that you were certain that Izayoi had the research?”

Avis blinked and swallowed hard, adjusting the collar of his pajamas with a shaking hand. “It . . . seemed . . . logical,” he muttered, grimacing inwardly at the feeble sound of his own voice. “H-he’s brilliant, they say . . .”

“Just because he’s brilliant you would assume that he would be given the research?” Fellowes mused, pushing the door closed though it remained open just a crack. “Your reasoning is sorely lacking. Now tell me you know who does have it.”

The menace in his tone was palpable. Avis winced as his stomach lurched unpleasantly. He’d tried, hadn’t he? He’d tried to find out who had been given the task of finishing the research. The Zelig family was loath to tell him anything of the sort, though, not that he could fault them for that. Still, if he didn’t think fast . . . “Give me a little more time,” he blurted, unable to keep the rising hint of hysteria out of his inflection. “I’ll find out; I swear I will. A day or two . . . maybe a week . . .”

“In a _day_ or a _week_ they might crack it wide open,” Eaton hissed, his eyes narrowing though the flash of his gaze remained unwavering. He stepped toward Avis once more, and once more Avis retreated. “No, my good doctor . . . I think you’ve had more than enough time, wouldn’t you say?”

Shrinking away from the pinpoints of light that impaled Avis where he stood, he saw the flash of movement seconds after the unforgiving vice of his hand closed around his throat, bearing him back against the wall with a force so hard that the structure shuddered and groaned.

He gasped for breath, clawing weakly at the ever-tightening hand that gripped him, tried in vain to break the hold as the edges of his vision blurred and dimmed; as the sound of dogs barking in the distance faded into the frenzied throb of his blood pumping through his veins.

“You have failed me for the last time, Dr. Avis,” the cold, smooth voice said as tendrils of blood ran in rivulets down his neck, soaking into the thin cotton pajamas.

The desperation behind his feeble attempts to regain his freedom waned, the stabbing pain lessening by degrees. As his vision faltered, as the coldness of death closed in, there was a strange sort of peace delineating it all. His hands fell slack by his sides, his body releasing the tension that had gripped him only moments before. The last thing Avis saw was the maniacal glowing in Eaton Fellowes’ murky eyes . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle tapped a tapered claw against her lips as she waited patiently for Griffin to re-emerge from the dressing room. He was taking the shopping venture really well, and while it surprised her, she also had to admit that it made her happy, too. He’d been trying on clothes for the better part of two hours, and despite his grumbling, he didn’t actually seem to mind too much. Granted, he hadn’t liked the fuchsia silk blouse that he’d just tried on—not surprising since she didn’t know many men who would, and that was a damn shame. Griffin had looked absolutely delicious in the thing . . .

To be completely honest, she hadn’t really needed his help in shopping for Bastian, and her goal had been to see how Griffin looked in some newer, trendier clothing since she had every intention of buying him a few nice things for Christmas. Trouble was he didn’t seem to like any of the clothing that she picked out, even the more conservative outfits . . . Well, that was just too bad, in her estimation. Griffin needed to update his wardrobe a little, and she was going to make sure that he did. She certainly had nothing against the nondescript but always neat clothing that Griffin tended to favor, but a man like him could get away with so much, fashion-wise. After all, he was tall, he was big, and he was damn fine looking . . .

It never ceased to amuse her, either, the sorts of looks he tended to garner without even trying or realizing. She knew well enough that he seemed to believe that he was akin to a monster—she supposed his scarring made him feel self-conscious—but most of the women, especially young women—certainly didn’t think he was even remotely close to that. Not at all, in fact; Isabelle knew damn well that, aside from the beautiful men in her family, that Griffin was something special.

She’d grown up around it, hadn’t she? She’d seen how girls tended to fall all over themselves around her cousins, and even the older male members of the family drew constant attention for their looks alone. On her father’s side, it was the striking silver hair; the piercing golden eyes, with the exceptions being her uncle, Toga and his children, who all had jet black hair—just as devastating when coupled with the amber eyes of the Inutaisho family. Her cousin, Gunnar was easily the prettiest man she’d ever seen—almost too pretty, really. Add to that the inherent Inutaisho arrogance, and, well, there were times aplenty when Isabelle had wanted to scream at Gunnar’s aloof attitude. Even then, he’d had girls who followed him around all the time growing up—at least, those who weren’t intimidated by his brusque demeanor though she’d often wondered just how many girls would have trailed him around otherwise. Her cousin, Morio had always had girls around. So sweet and devil-may-care, it was impossible not to adore that particular man, and Mikio?

She smiled at the thought of her youngest uncle. He tended to be a little shier around women than the rest of the men, likely because of his balance issues. It never had been determined just why Mikio sometimes tended to lose his balance. Isabelle vaguely remembered talk of testing—they’d suspected that he had inner ear problems—but nothing had ever really come of that. She’d heard her parents talking about it before when she was younger; something about InuYasha and Kagome arguing over whether or not to have Mikio tested. Her father had said that InuYasha hadn’t wanted to subject Mikio to further scrutiny because, “there ain’t a fucking thing wrong with my pup,” but Kagome had wanted to see if there was anything that could be done to help Mikio.

Quiet, gentle, absolutely intellectual, Mikio was given to lopsided grins and good-natured teasing. Unlike the rest of the boys, he had never been trained to fight though he had been taught to fire a gun, and Kagome had gone out of her way to teach him archery. It had always been a sore spot with him, though, and once he’d even complained about the fact that Isabelle could probably kick his ass if it ever came down to a real fight. Still, Mikio was a deadeye shot with bow and arrow or gun. Isabelle had always figured that his special training had worked to level the playing field, so to speak.

Of course, on her mother’s side—the Zelig side—there wasn’t a question about the whole ‘beauty’ thing, either. As a child, Isabelle had been enchanted by her own grandfather, Cain. As apple pie as they came, she supposed. Golden bronze hair and sapphire blue eyes—eyes that often seemed to be looking for things that normal people just couldn’t see—he was a dreamer, her mother had said. It was that sense of wistfulness in him that had lent him a more approachable air since he should have been as intimidating as Sesshoumaru, in his own right. He was tall—nearly seven feet tall—and he wasn’t exactly what anyone would have called ‘lanky’ though he seemed almost that way when standing beside his son, Bastian. Then again, no one was really sure exactly where Bastian had gotten his physique. He’d always been a big guy; bigger than the rest of Isabelle’s cousins that were her age. The main difference, though, was that, while Cain tended to look dreamy most of the time, Bastian . . . well, Bastian could be rather intimidating—at least, he might have been if Isabelle didn’t know damn well that he was about as gentle as they came. The thoughtful scowl he wore most of the time, though, tended to make him look fiercer than he actually was, though it was also a well known fact that Bastian was indisputably the best fighter in the family from his generation. Last she’d heard, he’d actually fought Uncle Ryomaru in a battle that ended in a draw though he never had been able to best their grandfather, InuYasha.

But Griffin . . .

True, Griffin wasn’t pretty like Gunnar—a good thing, if one asked Isabelle—but he was damn fine looking. His deep brown eyes seemed to glow, adding a warmth to his normally serious expression, and the shaggy, chestnut brown hair that he tried to tame was the kind of hair that women just wanted to run their fingers through. Long bangs that often fell over his eyes looked good on him, diminishing the harsher angles of his high cheekbones; the almost pouty quality of his lips . . .

She loved the rugged sort of air that surrounded him; the understated masculinity that defined him. She adored the five o’clock shadow that never really went away; she craved the scent of him—of clean fields of sun-warmed grass; of the smell of the air just before a good rain. In her heart she knew that she’d forever think of him any time she smelled those things, and the warmth of feeling perfectly safe . . . Only three people had ever really given her that feeling of security on that sort of level. Her parents, of course, had always provided that sense of shelter, and now Griffin . . .

Oh, surely she felt safe with everyone in her family, but the depth of the emotion was stronger with Griffin; stronger even than the warmth she remembered as a child, of creeping into her parents’ bedroom whenever it stormed late at night, waking her from her slumber, and the safest place she knew at the time was in their bed, snuggled between them, so close that she could hear the beating of their hearts that drowned out the crashes of thunder and dimmed the flashes of lightning.

Griffin lent her that now; that sense of being completely safe, of knowing that nothing in the world really could hurt her so long as he was there, and while she believed that there really wasn’t a more beautiful man on earth, she knew deep down that his real attraction stemmed from deep down, in a soul as gentle as the wind, even if he did try to hide it behind gruff words and clumsy gestures.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, Isabelle narrowed her eyes on the closed dressing room door. She was starting to wonder if he was going to come out at all. She knew that aside from teaching, he hated anything that made him the center of attention, and in his mind, trying on clothes undoubtedly fit that bill perfectly. With a marked sigh, she crossed her arms over her stomach and ambled toward the dressing room door.

“Are you coming out?” she called, raising her voice enough to be heard through the barrier.

She didn’t miss Griffin’s unmistakable snort. “It depends. Are we finished yet?”

Breaking into a smile, she laughed. “Almost . . . I want to see that green pullover.”

“I look like a really stupid tree,” he pointed out.

“Let me see before you start losing your leaves.”

That earned her another snort, but he finally did open the door as Isabelle’s smile widened, her eyes taking on an appreciative glow. “You look good in green,” she commented, reaching up to flick the thick fleece on his shoulders.

“I feel like a stuffed sausage,” he muttered, cheeks pinking when he caught sight of her open admiration.

“I like this,” she went on, her tone almost absent as she walked shuffled around him. “It draws attention to your shoulders.”

He grunted something completely unintelligible before craning his neck to see what she was doing. “They’re just shoulders,” he grumbled with a shake of his head, “and stop circling me like a shark, will you?”

“Well,” she drawled, unable to ignore the open opportunity to tease him just a little, “you do look rather delicious . . .”

She laughed outright when his face exploded in a violent shade of red. “Jezebel!” he hissed, turning on his heel to stomp back into the sanctity of the dressing room once more.

“Are you finding everything all right?” a small, sleek salesgirl asked, leaning to the side as though she were trying to keep from intruding.

“Just fine,” Isabelle assured her then snapped her fingers as sudden inspiration struck her. Reaching out, she grabbed Griffin’s arm to stop him and tugged him back. “What do you think?” she asked, nodding her head at Griffin.

The salesgirl smiled, her eyes registering her agreement. “ _Very_ nice.”

Isabelle turned toward Griffin. “See? I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

He snorted and pulled his arm away from her. “She’s _paid_ to think so,” he muttered low enough that the girl in question wouldn’t hear him, and not for the first time, Isabelle noticed that he was holding his head at a rather odd angle. What, exactly, was he doing?

Her smile faded slightly. He was hiding his scars, keeping his face turned just enough so that the salesgirl wouldn’t see the unmistakable scars that ran the length of his cheek. He’d done it for so long that it was second nature to him, wasn’t it? And that, more than anything bugged the hell out of her. He shouldn’t have to hide anything about himself, damn it. He should hold his head high and be proud of the fine man he was. His scars didn’t make him any less attractive. Why was it that he couldn’t understand that?

Still she let him go. It wasn’t the time or place to start trying to work on his self-esteem, at least not in that way.

“Let me know if you need anything,” the girl said, her slight bemusement dissipating when Griffin closed the dressing room door.

Isabelle nodded and watched the girl’s departure as a thoughtful frown surfaced on her features. No, no matter what Griffin believed, the salesgirl wasn’t being paid to look at him like she had, and she wasn’t the only one to give him that sort of look. Isabelle saw it all the time, and she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why it was that Griffin couldn’t see it, himself.

‘ _Maybe he doesn’t want to see it_ ,’ her youkai pointed out.

She shook her head, biting her lip as she considered that. ‘ _Maybe_ . . .’

‘ _Don’t be naïve, Bitty. For every admiring look he gets, he gets a not-so-admiring one, too. You know he does, and no matter what you think, those looks are the ones that are harder to shake off_.’

Her frown deepened. That might be true, too . . . disparaging looks from people who thought that superficial beauty was everything, those who gaped at people with absolute revulsion and didn’t stop to think that the person at whom they were staring could see their distaste in their expressions. What right did anyone have to look at another person like that? Those were the kind of people, in Isabelle’s opinion, who were the ugly ones . . .

Griffin mumbled something from inside the room, but his voice was muffled by the door so badly that she couldn’t really make out his words.

“What’s that?” she called, pressing her hands against the pressed wood door and leaning in to better discern his words.

He muttered something else that she couldn’t discern, and she shook her head, reaching for the door knob and turning it before she gave her actions a second thought only to be brought up short by the vision that greeted her. Standing with his back to her, he was obviously struggling to get the pullover off, and when he’d lifted it, his undershirt had ridden up with it, exposing the skin of his back for her perusal.

She’d known that he was a big man, of course. Still there was something altogether shocking about seeing him in that state of undress. Somehow he seemed even larger, more magnificent, and she couldn’t help the soft gasp as she sucked in a sharp breath, her heart hammering out an erratic rhythm as her knees nearly buckled under her. She wanted to touch him—desperately wanted to touch him. The glow of his skin seemed to beckon her as her pulse sped up, as her breathing increased . . .

He was struggling with the pullover, and she frowned as she realized exactly why that was. The skin covering his back, his shoulders, was crisscrossed with thick, puffy, angry scars, some of them still harshly discolored, as though he’d just gotten them. The scars covered his skin, traversing his body in every conceivable direction—jagged tears, heavy wounds like someone had tried to peel the skin right off of him . . . Judging from the width and severity of them, she could only guess that the scar tissue was deep, and having that sort of build up probably did inhibit his mobility—the reason why he was having such difficulty in removing the article of clothing.

She grimaced as he finally managed to tug the pullover off, turning slowly, affording her a better look at his torso—his left side a matrix of scar tissue that extended around his back and stomach. Scars that severe . . . how much pain had he been in when he’d received injuries harsh enough to leave the lasting reminders . . .? The very idea of him suffering so badly was almost more than she could stomach . . .

“Wh—uh—g-g-get out of here!” he hissed, finally noticing that he had an audience. A thousand emotions flickered over his features, each one gone long before she could have discerned them, but she was staring at his body, unable to repress the absolute horror of the pain he had to have endured and anger that anyone should have to suffer so much. She didn’t notice as he strode toward her until he grabbed her arm, shoving her out of the dressing room. She flinched as he shut the door hard, blinking back the suspect rise of moisture that blurred her vision as the ache that gripped her heart tightened, as she asked herself just what he’d been through . . . and why . . .

Wincing, wrapping her arms around herself as she fought against the overwhelming desire to go to him, to put her arms around him in a futile effort to alleviate the pain that still followed him despite the healing of the flesh, she sighed. Closing her eyes did nothing to dispel the image of those terrible scars, and as much as she wished it were otherwise, she knew that he’d only push her further away.

“What happened to you?” she whispered, letting her forehead fall against the door, squeezing her eyes closed as she balled her hands into tight fists. She’d never felt quite so helpless before in her life, and in the face of his pain—the pain she knew was still very much alive in his mind, there wasn’t a damn thing she could do, was there? The comfort and security that he unwittingly offered her . . . the strength of his very essence that she’d come to rely on . . . Did she give him the same things in return? “Griffin . . .”

Moments later, he jerked the door open, his clothing back in place, and he seemed surprised for just a moment as he caught her, steadied her, then moved her aside.

A million questions tumbled around her mind though she couldn’t give voice to any of them. Watching in silence as he strode out of the dressing room area, she didn’t have it in her to cause him more discomfort that she already had.

But she followed him anyway, not surprised that he was headed for the exit. Quickening her pace to close the distance between them, she muttered an apology to the salesgirl but didn’t stop walking until she caught up with him outside. “Griffin?” she said, darting around him and stopping him with a hand on his arm.

He scowled down at the unwelcome gesture but stopped, the color in his cheeks darkened to a ruddy hue though whether it stemmed from embarrassment or anger, she didn’t know. “Can we just go home?” he rumbled, averting her gaze as he scanned the parking lot over her head.

“Sure,” she said quietly as a surge of relief flooded through her. He wasn’t angry—at least, he wasn’t very angry, and even then, she had the distinct feeling that any irritation he was suffering really didn’t have a thing to do with her. Why she felt like that, she wasn’t sure. In any case, she knew intrinsically that his reaction really had stemmed more from embarrassment and maybe a bit of self-disgust more than anything else, and in an effort to alleviate the waning tension a little faster, she forced a bright smile and stepped a little closer. “You know, big man, if you want to run around the house without your shirt on, I really wouldn’t complain.”

He blinked quickly, casting her an incredulous look before snorting loudly as more color rose to his already reddened cheeks, and he shook his head before turning abruptly, veering to the right as he led the way to Isabelle’s car, and she sighed though her eyes gave away her lingering amusement and relief that she’d gotten the desired result.

‘ _One day_ . . .’ she vowed, lifting her chin as though to defy the rising winter wind. ‘ _One day you’ll believe me when I tell you that you’re the one . . . the_ only _one_ . . .’

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _Eye candy, indeed_ …


	29. Raindrops on Roses

Griffin wandered into the dining room with one of the binders balanced in his left hand and straightening his glasses with this right. He glanced up and stopped short, raising an eyebrow at the vision that greeted him. It wasn’t the sight of every single bit of furniture that was pulled away from the walls, not that there was much to start with, but the bureau he’d put by the doorway was butted up against the table, and she’d taken the painting of a couple of deer in the forest off the wall, too. Somehow Isabelle had managed to disassemble the fan, too—the blades were lying on the table arranged on old towels to dry, but that wasn’t what had drawn his attention. Far from it, in fact. No, the thing that did it was the woman in question, hunkered down in front of the basement door scowling at the keyhole in the middle of the doorknob with the claw on her index finger gingerly probing said keyhole.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded almost mildly.

She gasped and jerked back, landing on her rear as she tried to spin around to face him, and he was treated to a very rare sight, indeed, as the incorrigible woman’s cheeks pinked in embarrassment at having been caught her hand in the proverbial cookie jar, so to speak. “This isn’t what it looks like,” she blurted, maneuvering herself so that she was sitting on her knees with her hands restlessly stroking the long golden bronze ponytail that hung over her shoulder.

“Oh?”

She shook her head quickly, pinning him with her most winning smile, he supposed. “No,” she insisted with another quick shake of her head.

Griffin snorted. “So you _weren’t_ trying to pick the lock on the basement door?” he countered, setting the research binder on the table and crossing his arms over his chest.

She grimaced, scrunching up her shoulders as she knitted her fingers together in a surprisingly nervous sort of way. “Well, okay, I _was_ doing that,” she admitted in a small voice, “but not for the reason you think, I swear!”

“You mean there’s another reason that you’d deliberately try to break into my basement when I’ve specifically asked you to keep your clammy little paws off the door and your big, fat nose out of there?”

She blinked, obviously sidetracked by his assessment. “I have a big, fat nose?” she queried.

Griffin rolled his eyes. “It was an expression, Jezebel,” he grumbled.

She sighed. “So you _don’t_ think I have a big, fat nose?”

He snorted. “About as big and fat as your ass,” he grumbled then flicked a hand in blatant dismissal. “Now suppose you tell me the reason why you think that I shouldn’t be irritated as hell that you were trying to break into the basement after I expressly forbade it multiple times?”

She made a face and rubbed her forehead with a grimy hand—she’d been cleaning the kitchen and dining room—he hadn’t realized they were dirty—and when she let her hand drop away, he nearly smiled at the dark streak that she’d left on her flawless skin. “Oh, that . . .” she hedged.

“Yeah, that,” he reminded her.

Wrinkling her nose, she reached up, grabbing the spindles in the back of a chair to hoist herself to her feet. Much to his everlasting chagrin, she’d changed into a threadbare t-shirt that was about ten sizes too small and a ragged pair of cut off jeans shorts just before she’d unceremoniously announced that she was going to do some cleaning mere minutes after returning to the sanctity of his home from the utterly forgettable shopping debacle. “Well, you see, I was going to put the fan blades back up, but I dropped one of the screws, and it rolled under the door.”

He nodded slowly, resting his left elbow on his right arm that was still wrapped over his stomach and curling his fingers over his chin in a thoroughly thoughtful gesture. “A somewhat convincing story,” he allowed with a vague nod. “So if I open the door, the screw will be there.”

She nodded emphatically. “Yes.”

He spared another moment to consider her claim before shuffling over to the door and fishing the key out of his pocket. The errant screw really was just inside the door having fallen to land on the first step down. To his surprise, though, she didn’t even try to peek around him while he retrieved it, grimacing as he forced his clumsy fingers to pinch the screw. Grasping something so small was difficult at best, even with his left hand that was in much better condition than his right one. He breathed a sigh of relief as he straightened up and closed the basement door again. “Stay out of my basement,” he grumbled, dropping the tiny bit of metal into Isabelle’s hand and turning to re-secure the lock.

“My hero,” she breathed then giggled, planting a kiss on his right cheek before scurrying over to climb onto the table.

Griffin grunted, unable to stave back the flush that rose in his skin.

Isabelle didn’t seem to notice since she was busy trying to balance a fan blade on her fingertips while starting the screws with her free hand. “I don’t know why you won’t let me down there,” she complained in an idle tone as she concentrated on keeping the blade still.

Griffin rattled the knob to satisfy himself that he’d successfully locked it. “Because,” he grumbled, turning away from the door and wondering just how long it’d be before she took a header off the table, “you’ll try to girlify it or something.”

“Girlify?” she echoed, sparing a moment to glance at him, her golden eyes sparkling with repressed amusement. “Is that even a word?”

“It is now,” he insisted with a snort as he pocketed the key once more.

“Keh!” she scoffed, using her grandfather’s infamous expression. “I haven’t tried to ‘girlify’ anything else, have I?”

Griffin snorted and stepped over to the bureau, making a show of deliberately lifting the small wicker basket and shaking the lilac scented potpourri inside while pinning Isabelle with a significant look. “I rest my case,” he informed her, dropping the basket onto the bureau once more before reaching for the abandoned research notes.

She giggled. “Oh, relax, Pooh Bear! It’s not like I put up lacy pink curtains, is it?”

“I’d say that’s bad enough,” he mumbled, shaking his head at her sensibilities.

“I’d only put potpourri in the basement if it smelled bad,” she pointed out, pulling a Philips screwdriver out of her pocket and rising on tiptoe to peer over the top of the fan blade. The tiny t-shirt she wore rose with her movements, and Griffin swallowed hard as he stared at the three inches of skin that was revealed. Her stomach was as creamy soft and smooth as the rest of her skin, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to look away from her. “Does it?”

“D-does what?” he stammered, summoning the last vestiges of his resolve and forcing his eyes away.

“Does your basement smell bad,” she reiterated having not noticed Griffin’s lapse in better judgment.

Scowling at the mess his thoughts had become from the mere sight of Isabelle’s stomach, he snorted loudly and concentrated his attention out the window at the squirrels darting across his back yard. “It’s my last bastion of masculinity,” he pointed out, jamming his glasses onto his face. “I don’t care if it smells like knee sweat and gym socks; you’re _still_ not going down there.”

The screwdriver fell onto the table with a loud clatter, and when Griffin looked up, it was to find Isabelle standing in the center of the table with her hands on her hips and an impish smile lighting her face. “Knee sweat? Dare I ask?”

Griffin rolled his eyes and snatched up the screwdriver, pausing long enough to inspect the table top for new gouges. “Are you going to tell me that the backs of your knees never get sweaty?”

She laughed outright, holding out her hand for the tool she’d dropped. “Maybe so, but I can’t say that I know what it smells like, either.”

He set the book aside and tapped the screwdriver’s handle against his palm as he leaned away to consider her statement, and he wasn’t surprised when she crouched down and tried to swipe it out of his hand, either. He pulled it away before she could retrieve it, and he couldn’t resist drawing in a deep breath when the end of her hair brushed against his cheek. “You sort of smell like it,” he ventured innocently enough.

She stopped stock still for a second before whipping her head to the side to stare at him. “Do I really?” she deadpanned.

He nodded, smacking the handle of the screwdriver into her hand. “Yes, you do.”

Her laugher echoed through the house, adding an invisible warmth to the place he called home. “You have no idea,” she managed between fits of giggling, “how romantic you are sometimes, Griffin Marin.”

He made a show of slowly shaking his head and snatching up the binder once more. “Get off my table before you fall and bloody up the place,” he said as he turned on his heel to make a hasty retreat.

“Don’t rush me or I _will_ fall,” she retorted as she reached for the next fan blade and got back to her feet.

“You’re a doctor,” he tossed back over his shoulder as he stepped out of the dining room.

“I’d get this done faster if you helped me,” she called after him.

“You took it apart; you put it back together, MacGyver.”

“Who’s MacGyver?”

“Never mind; he was well before your time,” he mumbled, grimacing at the stark realization of the vast difference in their ages.

She heaved a long-suffering sigh as Griffin broke into a faint little smile. In the few hours since the dressing room incident, he was more than a little surprised that his discomfort in having been caught without his shirt on had dissipated as quickly as it had, and he still wasn’t sure why that was. At the time, he’d been so caught up in trying to take the stupid fleece pullover off that he hadn’t even noticed that she’d slipped into the dressing room until he’d turned around only to find her staring at him.

But it wasn’t that alone that had disturbed him, no. It was the look of abject horror on her face that had done it, and for a moment, he couldn’t help the rise of panic that she’d gotten a good look at the scars he’d tried so hard to hide; the self-disgust that he’d somehow managed to convince himself somewhere in the back of his mind that the scars wouldn’t bother Isabelle . . . or maybe it was just a stupid, blind hope . . .

‘ _Damn, damn, damn! She thinks . . . She thinks_ . . .’

 _Resting his forehead against the thin door, calling himself a fool—ten times a fool—for forgetting that he really was a monster, he’d stood there, frozen, forehead resting against the closed door, for a second—long enough for her softly uttered words to reach him, and in that moment, he’d understood_. . .

“ _What happened to you?” she’d asked, her voice muffled by the door_.

 _Fighting back the coppery tinge of regret, the consuming, debilitating realization that he’d let his guard down, he snatched up the pullover he’d hastily tossed down and jerked the plain white t-shirt free, yanking it over his head and shoving his arms into the sleeves of his coat and pausing only long enough to grab his nondescript black and brown plaid flannel shirt before yanking open the door. It was sheer reflex that had caught Isabelle by the arms, steadying her on her feet as she stumbled forward—she’d been leaning against the door, hadn’t she? With that, he’d brushed past her, striding through the store, ignoring the salesgirl who was asking if everything was all right, the only real thought in his mind, the overwhelming need to distance himself from Isabelle—distance himself before he saw that horror in her eyes again_ . . .

“ _Griffin?” Isabelle said, darting around him and stopping him with a hand on his arm_.

 _He scowled down at her small, soft hand, able to countenance the thought that a creature like her would demean herself by touching a monster like him as the color in his cheeks darkened to a ruddy hue. “Can we just go home?” he rumbled, averting her gaze as he scanned the parking lot over her head, biting back the bitter wash of recrimination, the late realization that he really was a fool_ . . .

“ _Sure,” she said quietly as a sense of instantaneous relief surged from her, reaching out to him, reassuring him in a strange sort of way that maybe she really didn’t believe the same things he did. It was as though she’d somehow sensed that his upset, his irritation, was directed more at himself than at her—at his own carelessness when he’d tried so hard to hide himself from her and ultimately failed . . . “You know, big man, if you want to run around the house without your shirt on, I really wouldn’t complain,” she said suddenly, a suspect brightness adding a devious glow to her golden eyes, and he knew—just_ knew— _that she was teasing him on purpose_.

 _He blinked quickly, casting her an incredulous look before snorting loudly as more color rose to his already reddened cheeks, and he shook his head before turning abruptly, veering to the right as he led the way to Isabelle’s car_ . . .

The ride back to the house had been quiet though not completely uncomfortable, either. It was disconcerting, to say the least, the knowledge that he really couldn’t deny: Isabelle hadn’t actually been disgusted at the sight of him. What had bothered her most was the idea that . . . that he’d suffered. As much as he’d wanted to deny that; to believe that she really had been sickened by the mere sight of his flaws, her words, quiet and maybe not even meant to reach him . . . they had, and it was those words that had been foremost in his mind since the incident . . .

“ _What happened to you . . .?_ ”

Settling down in his recliner and staring blankly at the pages of the research pages without actually seeing them, Griffin sighed and rubbed his temple with a slightly shaking hand. She didn’t make a damn bit of sense to him. She never had. Why would a woman like her keep looking at a man like him? Why couldn’t she ever just leave well enough alone? And why couldn’t he be entirely sure that he really wanted to her to do that?

To be entirely honest, he’d gotten the feeling, at least after the fact, that she hadn’t been horrified by him, per se, and while he’d felt the humiliation at the time, he couldn’t shake the curious thought that she’d been horrified at the scars, themselves—how he’d gotten them and the severity of them—more than she’d been bothered by the perceived imperfection of him on a whole. Why he felt that way might have had something to do with the quiet words she’d said: words that weren’t necessarily meant for him to hear. Still in hindsight, he had to wonder, and maybe that was the real reason he wasn’t feeling as angry, as guarded, as he might have otherwise.

Snorting at the capriciousness of his thoughts, Griffin squeezed his eyes closed and forced his eyes to focus on the words in the binder. Worrying about things wouldn’t really change anything in the end, and he knew that better than anyone. Even if they could, what would be the point?

No, it was best to leave things alone, wasn’t it? Better to let things go on as they had before. The last thing he wanted was to encourage her to ask questions, and those questions . . . well, there really wasn’t any peace to be found in the answers . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Jillian Jamison scowled at the cell phone as she clicked the disconnect button with a heavy sigh. She’d tried earlier to call Dr. Avis to wish him a merry Christmas. He hadn’t answered then, either.

“Still not home?” Gavin asked, shuffling into the bedroom and sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Nope,” she replied, flipping the phone closed against the heel of her hand and tossing the device toward the foot of the mattress before crawling over to her mate. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”

He nodded, swinging his legs up as he settled back against the mountain of pillows, getting comfortable with the latest issue of _Sci-Fi Geekworld_ magazine.

Jillian ferreted her way under his arm, settling against his shoulder with a happy sigh. “Did I get my latest _Pop Pho?_ ” she asked since his magazine and hers normally arrived around the same time every month. He’d bought her the subscription to _Popular Photography_ just after they were married—he’d called it a really cheap wedding present, and Jillian had loved it.

“Not yet,” he answered absently—she was surprised he’d heard her at all. Licking his thumb so that he could better separate the pages of the magazine, Gavin’s kissed her forehead without taking his eyes off the page he was reading. “Did you leave a message on his voicemail?”

“I hate talking to machines,” she reminded him, running the tips of her claws lightly down the muscles of his stomach and grinning when they jumped under her ardent perusal.

Letting the magazine fall closed over his fingers, Gavin shot her glance full of mock chagrin before dropping the publication onto the nightstand and rolling toward her, stroking her back almost idly, unable to help the small smile that shifted into a slight grimace when he touched the waistband of the underpants she was wearing. “You know, I think it should disturb me a little more than it does that you like wearing my underwear,” he pointed out with an artfully arched eyebrow. “They’re huge on you . . .”

Jillian giggled and wiggled around, propping herself up on her elbow and leaning in to steal a quick kiss. “They’re not _that_ huge, and they’re comfortable,” she informed him. “More comfortable than women’s, if you want my opinion.”

Gavin rolled his eyes. “Huge enough . . . which is more than a little disturbing, in and of itself,” he grumbled.

She laughed at his assessment. “Maybe,” she ventured. “They’re roomier.”

“. . . _Roomier?_ ” he echoed.

She nodded emphatically. “Yes . . . I told Maddy that she ought to start wearing men’s underpants.”

“Yeah, well, she can’t steal Evan’s,” he remarked rather dryly.

Jillian laughed and batted her eyelashes at him. “Evan doesn’t wear underpants, Gavvie.”

He chuckled and pulled her down to kiss her cheek. “I know.”

“I could always lend her some of yours to try,” Jillian ventured.

Gavin grunted. “God, no! That’s even more disturbing an idea than Maddy wearing Evan’s underpants . . .”

“Are you saying that you wouldn’t share your underpants with a friend?”

“About as much as I’d share what’s _in_ my underpants with a friend.”

Jillian’s smile turned a little wicked, and she nipped at his chin in an entirely nice way. “I would hope you wouldn’t share that with anyone but me, Gavvie,” she said in a throaty whisper.

He blushed and wrinkled his nose. “I meant you, Jilli, not _that_.”

She snuggled against his broad chest, savoring the feel of a lazy Sunday afternoon. “Our first Christmas together,” she said with a contented little sigh.

“That’s not entirely true,” Gavin remarked. “We’ve spent lots of Christmases together.”

“Not as mates . . . not as lovers,” she pointed out.

He couldn’t help the color that filtered into his skin at her casual assessment, and true to form, she laughed again. “That’s true,” he agreed slowly, wrapping his arms tightly around her shoulders, holding her closer than his beating heart. “I love you, Jilli.”

Jillian closed her eyes, savoring the absolute nearness of him, basking in the consuming sense of peace that engulfed her. “I love you more, Gavvie.”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle balanced the stack of presents against her hip as she reached for the door handle and pushed on it. The door swung open without a sound. Shifting the packages so that she was holding them with both hands, she couldn’t help the small smile that surfaced as she headed down the hallway and into the living room.

Griffin had moved from the recliner where he had been working on the translations, to the desk, and he spared a moment to cast her a suspicious glance as she negotiated the maze of sparse furnishings in the room in her way to the Christmas tree.

“What are those?” he asked, eyeing the gifts like he thought they contained some form of nuclear weaponry.

“Presents,” she replied pleasantly, carefully setting the stack on the floor and kneeling down to arrange them under the tree.

He snorted, the creak of the chair telling her that he’d turned around to get back to work.

“And you can’t peek or you’ll ruin your surprises,” she went on casually, picking at a ribbon curl and fussing with a bow.

The scratch of his pen on the notebook paper stopped abruptly. “My surprise?”

Luckily for her, he couldn’t see the wide grin spreading on her face. “That’s right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked rather reluctantly.

She glanced over her shoulder at him only to catch him doing the same to her. “I mean that I’ll be really upset if you ruin your Christmas surprises by messing with your presents.”

“Present _s_?” he repeated, adding extra emphasis on the ‘s’.

“Yes,” she allowed, using her fingertips to straighten the smallest package just a little bit.

That earned her a marked snort as the scratch of the pen resumed. “This is just a ploy to get presents out of me, isn’t it?”

She covered her mouth and laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “Absolutely not,” she assured him. “It’s the season for giving, not getting.”

He snorted at that, too, and she pushed herself to her feet, dusting her hands together industriously before starting out of the room once more. “Now I’m not kidding. No peeking,” she said, pausing beside Griffin’s desk.

Griffin didn’t even bother to glance at her. “I’ve got no interest in poking around under a pine tree.”

Her laughter echoed in the house as she made her way to the kitchen.

But the house remained silent while she dug salmon steaks out of the refrigerator. She was starting to think that he really was going to ignore the presents when she heard the soft creak of his desk chair. Casually stepping to the side for a better view, she could just see the mirror that hung over the little table beside the back door, and her grin widened. He was leaning back in his chair, eyeing the presents under the tree—the ones that didn’t interest him, of course—and she almost laughed out loud when he swung around to make sure that she wasn’t lurking nearby, to spy on him.

Apparently satisfied that she wasn’t looking since he couldn’t see her in the mirror she was watching him in, he continued his ardent perusal while stubbornly refusing to move any closer or to vacate the safety of his office chair.

He continued doing that for the longest time, craning his neck and leaning further and further back in the chair in a valiant effort to keep from actually looking interested in the presents. Time and again, Isabelle nearly laughed. He reminded her of a child who had first realized what the presents under the tree meant. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear it was the first time he’d been given anything for Christmas . . .

He was almost perversely determined not to get out of the chair and not to touch the presents in any way, or so it seemed. Craning his neck to scope out the gifts she’d arranged below the tree, however, was tricky given his vantage point.

“What are you doing in there?” he called, glancing toward the kitchen with a thoughtful scowl on his features.

“Making dinner,” she replied, resuming her task of unwrapping the salmon steaks.

He grunted but said no more, and when she dared another look at the mirror again, she wasn’t at all surprised to see him inching backward in the chair. He said something to Froofie—she couldn’t hear him but she could tell by the animal’s reaction—and the dog lifted his head in question, his tail wagging automatically. He glanced at the tree when Griffin made a motion toward it but didn’t move. Isabelle bit her cheek to keep from giggling since it didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out that the bear-youkai was trying his damndest to get the dog to do his dirty work for him.

Froofie didn’t understand what Griffin was asking of him, though, and with a sigh—she could tell by the way Griffin’s shoulders rose and fell—he gave up, sparing a moment to glance at the sofa—at the cat?—before turning his attention back to the gifts under the tree once more.

It took him a minute of peering over his shoulder at the kitchen before he mustered the gumption to get out of the chair and approach the tree. When he did, he made an exaggerated show of stretching and peeking through the wide archway that led into the dining room and kitchen beyond before he stuffed his hands into his pockets and ever so slowly shuffled toward the tree.

She couldn’t tell what he was doing. It looked like he was just standing there, looking down at the assembled presents. He didn’t seem to be moving, at least that she could tell, and she had to bite back the urge to charge back into the living room so she could get a better view. Of course, he’d stop if she did go in there, and that would be a shame. Still, he was standing there for far too long to simply be staring at the gifts.

Smothering a giggle with the back of her hand, Isabelle’s eyes widened when she finally noticed the hint of movement in Griffin’s stance; little more than a slight shift of his posture, really. He was nudging the gifts with his foot, wasn’t he? Still determined not to touch them with his hands, he’d given in and was trying to appease his curiosity . . .

He kept up the nudging for a few minutes. Isabelle had to wonder if he’d succeeded in knocking any of the presents out from under the tree yet. As much as she wanted to creep a little closer, she didn’t dare. If he caught her watching now, she knew that he’d retreat. The man had more stubborn pride than anyone, and he’d rather bite off his tongue than admit that he was curious about anything.

She’d give him credit for obstinacy, she figured. She could almost feel his rising frustration since tapping the packages with his foot was availing him little. It was only a matter of time before he gave in, and she couldn’t help the amusement that wrung a smile from her as she wondered rather absently if her parents had ever felt that way, if they had stood back to watch as she and her sisters tried to discover the secrets of the festively wrapped gifts under the tree years ago . . .

She’d counted on his curiosity, hadn’t she? Spending hours wrapping just a few presents; taking care with the ribbons so they were perfectly curled and arranged, she had wanted him to experience the wonder, the complete child-like awe that she remembered . . . waking up on Christmas morning and running into the living room only to see the presents stacked high under the tree; presents that hadn’t been anywhere in the house the night before . . . Griffin hadn’t had that, and even if it was a stupid, silly wish, she’d call it good if he could only understand . . .

Griffin glanced back over his shoulder—a pathetic attempt to make sure that she wasn’t looking. Completely conspicuous and wholly adorable, she could see the heightened glint in his eye though his expression remained almost stony. It really was bugging the hell out of him, and she knew it.

Satisfied that she wasn’t watching—he still didn’t realize that she could see him in the mirror, she supposed—he turned around once more and slowly, cautiously, hunkered down before the Christmas tree and slowly lifted a ribbon-festooned present. Turning it from side to side, he examined it thoroughly before reluctantly leaning down, ducking his head. ‘ _Sniffing it?_ ’ she mused as her smile widened a little more. ‘ _Oh, my_ . . .’

But he wasn’t finished. Dissatisfied that he couldn’t get a very good smell of the package, he finally gave in and shook it.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, Isabelle reluctantly dragged her attention off the bear-youkai. He’d know she’d been watching if she didn’t get dinner started, wouldn’t he, and if he figured that out, then he’d never show his curiosity around her again, come hell or high water.

It was enough, to have seen the lapse in the wizened outer façade that he tried to hide behind. Little by little he was giving in, and even if he didn’t realize it for himself, she did.

“Did you look at any of the notes I left on the table?” Griffin grumbled, lumbering into the kitchen with Froofie in tow and the kitten trailing not far behind.

She glanced up from her task of chopping vegetables for Griffin’s salad only to do a classic double-take when she saw what he had nestled protectively in the crook of his arm: one of the gifts, unwrapped, of course, and open. “You know, that was one of your Christmas presents,” she remarked mildly as she whipped around to hide her amusement.

He paused for a moment with a handful of honey roasted pecans poised over his mouth. “Pecans are not suitable gifts,” he rumbled before stuffing the nuts into his face.

“Oh?”

“No, they’re a necessity.”

“A neces— _really?_ ” she countered, giving up the pretense of preparing salad as she turned to face him, arms crossed over her chest.

“That’s right. Besides, they’d go bad before Christmas,” he stated.

She blinked and pressed her lips together but couldn’t keep the little giggle from surging from her, just the same. “They’ll go bad in less than a week?”

He shot her a withering glower that didn’t work to stem her amusement. “Yes.”

“You’re taking all the joy out of the holiday,” she chastised.

“You said that those presents were for me. It’s not my fault if you failed to mention that you wanted me to wait to open this one.”

“I don’t suppose I did,” she agreed slowly as she resumed her preparations of the vegetables.

“That’s right . . . now hurry it up, will you? I’m starving.”

She nodded and smiled as she watched him turn on his heel and shuffle out of the kitchen with his pilfered bounty. She’d just have to be more careful next time, wouldn’t she? After all, she really _hadn’t_ told him that he had to wait . . .

Griffin was a little sneakier than she’d thought, which made the battle all the more intriguing, in her opinion . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_MacGyver_** _: American television show that featured Richard Dean Anderson in the title role as an ex-secret agent who could create or fix just about everything with whatever he had in his pocket at the time … **MacGyver** is property of Paramount Television_. 
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _Just like a pup_ …


	30. The Girl Who Has It All

The trill of the telephone was almost lost below the din of the running vacuum cleaner as Maria Masta shut off the appliance and straightened her back with a marked grimace. She wasn’t exactly feeling old, but she’d been up all day, trying to get the house spotless for the upcoming holiday. When the telephone rang again, she jumped and hurried over to the receiver that she’d left on the coffee table, dragging the canister vacuum behind her. “Hello?” she said, answering without checking the listing on the caller ID, expecting to hear the voice of one of the ladies she’d been working with in planning a Christmas party for the underprivileged children in her area. It was probably Lola Fleurent, the woman in charge of snacks. There were two days before the party, which meant that it was high time for Lola’s annual freak-out over the smallest details that would eventually work themselves out, just like they did every year . . .

“Uh, hi . . . Maria?”

Blinking in surprise, it took a moment for her brain to accept the irrefutable knowledge of just who had called her. “Osezno?”

He snorted. “You know, you could call me ‘Griffin’,” he grouched.

She smiled, brushing an errant lock of raven hair out of her eyes. “You will always be my ‘Osezno’,” she chastised.

He snorted again. “Yeah, okay.”

“Attean’s not home yet, but he should be soon . . . you _did_ call to talk to him, no?”

“Uh, no, actually,” Griffin mumbled. “I just, um . . .”

Leaning to the side and propping the vacuum against Attean’s recliner, Maria laughed softly. “So to what do I owe the pleasure of hearing your voice?” she prodded.

“Oh, I . . . well, you know, it’s almost, um, Christmas, and . . .”

“Uh huh . . .”

He coughed once. “I just thought I should . . . call and wish you a happy—er, merry—a _nice_ Christmas.”

She bit her lip and lowered the receiver for a moment, staring at the device as though she was trying to ascertain whether or not it was functioning properly. “And merry Christmas to you, too,” she said, bringing the receiver to her ear once more. To be honest, she couldn’t remember the last time Griffin had willingly called her, and to be told that it was simply to wish her a merry Christmas? No, there was definitely something up; she could feel it. Griffin, as far as she knew, never celebrated holidays, Christmas or otherwise. There had to be another reason for his call; she just knew it.

Clearing his throat in a decidedly nervous fashion, Griffin paused before speaking again. “So, um . . . d-do you expect anything . . . special . . . from Attean this year?”

“Anything special . . .?” she echoed, shaking her head as she sank down on the edge of the sofa with a thoughtful frown marring her brow. “You mean a special gift?”

“Uh . . . yeah . . .”

“Well, anything he gives me is special,” she began slowly.

“Of course,” he blurted. “That sounds about right . . . but you know . . . did you, um . . . did you _ask_ for anything . . . special?”

Narrowing her gaze as suspicion dawned, Maria took her time before answering him with a question of her own. “Having trouble thinking of something to buy anyone in particular?” she asked, careful to keep her tone as neutral as possible.

Griffin sucked in a sharp breath. “N-no,” he blurted. Maria had to wonder if his face was completely red or not. “Nothing like that. Just . . . making conversation . . .”

“I see . . .” she replied as the suspicion grew steadily worse. He was acting entirely unlike himself, and to that end, she couldn’t help the perverse desire to prolong his agony. ‘ _After all_ ,’ she reasoned, ‘ _if he isn’t going to tell me the truth_ . . .’

He cleared his throat. “So . . . did you?” he finally ventured.

Hard-pressed to keep from laughing outright, she wasn’t able to restrain the soft laughter that slipped out of her despite her best effort not to do anything of the sort. “Oh, well . . . you know, just the usual things.”

“U-usual things?” he repeated, obviously unsure about the things that Maria would consider to be the ‘usual’ things.

She smiled, unable to hold her amusement entirely in check. ‘ _So he’s fishing for gift ideas, is he?_ ’ she mused. “Yes, the usual things.”

“Oh . . . right . . . Stuff like, um . . .?”

“Hmm, well, last year he got me a really great vacuum cleaner,” she replied brightly, brushing aside the momentary twinge of guilt for telling a blatant lie.

She could hear the scrape of a door opening and a low grunt followed by the soft tap of claws against a hardwood floor. ‘ _A dog?_ ’ she wondered briefly then dismissed the thought just as quickly. Griffin didn’t like having animals in the house, and she knew it. It had always bothered him that Attean had allowed their pet raccoon inside the cabin so long ago. Some things didn’t change, no matter how many years or centuries passed between . . . ‘ _No_ . . .’

“Attean bought you a vacuum cleaner?” Griffin mumbled in a disbelieving tone. “For Christmas?”

Snapping out of her reverie, Maria bit her cheek and cleared her throat. “Absolutely!”

“And that was . . . okay . . .?”

“Of course it was!” she insisted. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Griffin grunted softly. “Well, it’s just a vacuum . . .”

“Hmm, true, but last year he bought me a fabulous ceiling fan . . . it has a remote control to drop it down for easy cleaning.”

He didn’t respond right away. He was probably trying to figure out whether or not she was being serious. “Does he always buy you . . . appliances?”

“Come to think of it, I suppose he does,” she agreed amiably enough.

“I see . . .”

Pressing her palm against her lips to keep from laughing outright, she couldn’t resist the urge to goad him further since she knew well enough that he was fishing for information without trying to appear as though he were. Unacceptable, she figured. After all, she’d be more than happy to give him gift suggestions for the mysterious Isabelle, but if he couldn’t be honest with her . . .

The door opened and closed, and she sensed the proximity of her mate. He’d be very interested in the subject matter under discussion, she didn’t doubt, but he’d also give in and offer the desired information without making Griffin fess up, too . . .

“There’s a really nice dishwasher I saw advertised,” she went on airily, wondering just how long she had until Attean figured out who was on the other end of the phone call. He breezed into the living room and headed straight for her, pausing long enough to kiss her cheek before striding off toward the kitchen for something to drink.

“Don’t you have one of those already?” Griffin countered.

“Sure, but this one has quad jets and is a lot more energy efficient. It washes the dishes in a fraction of the time because of the new jet system.”

“Uh-huh,” he allowed since he probably didn’t really understand what Maria was raving about.

“It’s a very thoughtful gift,” she pointed out brightly. “Anything that makes my job easier, you know . . . Attean is very good about that sort of thing.”

“I see . . .”

“That’s right. It’s the season for giving, so what better than to give a gift that will make things easier year-round?”

Griffin grunted. “I never really thought of it that way.”

“But you should. You certainly wouldn’t want to give someone something that isn’t useful at all, would you?”

She didn’t have to turn to know that Attean had slipped back into the living room and that he was leaning casually in the doorway, probably with an ice-cold beer in his hand and even more likely with a raised-eyebrow look directed at her. “If you say so . . .”

“A couple years ago, he bought me a car,” she pointed out. That one wasn’t a lie, though she’d told him exactly what make, model, and color she’d wanted, which had simplified things dramatically.

“Are you sure he only buys you appliances?” Griffin asked suddenly, the unmistakable suspicion rife in his tone.

“Would I lie to you, Osezno?”

He grunted, and Attean choked on a swig of beer. “Yeah, I’m starting to think you would.”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” she contradicted. “Shame on you! That you’d even think so little of me hurts me more than you realize . . . though if you’re looking for suggestions about what to get a certain woman . . .”

“Wo-Woman?”

“Yes, woman,” she stated again.

“Oh, uh, her? W-why would I get her anything?”

“I don’t know, Osezno . . . why would you?” she asked sweetly, wondering if his face was as red in truth as it was in her mind.

“She’ll get enough presents from her doting family. She sure as hell doesn’t need anything from me.”

“You could get her a pretty dress.”

Griffin snorted. “There’s not enough material in Maine to cover her fat ass,” he countered, his voice growing drier with every passing moment, and he sighed.

Maria tried again, deciding that she probably ought to attempt to give Griffin some real ideas. “Or a foot soak . . . she’s a doctor, right? So she spends a lot of time on her feet.”

“The bathtub’s not big enough for clodhoppers like hers.”

Maria rolled her eyes but let his cryptic commentary pass. “There’re always gift certificates if you’re not sure what she’d like.”

That suggestion earned her a noncommittal grunt. “I’m not buying her a damn present,” he grumbled then sighed. “Well, anyway . . . uh, merry Christmas . . . and I hope you enjoy your . . . _dishwasher_ . . .”

She laughed and clicked the ‘off’ button as she lowered the telephone receiver from her ear. Maybe she’d give him another call later to let him know that she was just teasing. Then again, maybe not . . .

“A dishwasher?” Attean remarked rather drolly. “You should have told me sooner . . .”

“So you heard me,” she allowed, flashing him a bright smile as she hurried over to drop the receiver onto the charge stand.

“I hope you were teasing, Maria,” he went on as he pushed himself away from the door jamb and sauntered toward her.

“Think so?” she teased, resting her hands on his chest as he pulled her close and kissed her cheek again.

“Tell me why you were lying to Griffin?”

“I wasn’t lying,” she maintained with a shake of her head as she tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “You did buy me that vacuum last year.”

“Good God, you didn’t tell him I bought you that thing for Christmas, did you?”

She laughed. “I might have . . .”

“You’re a wicked woman, Maria Masta . . . tell me why you’d say something so bad?”

She made a face and waved her hand in blatant dismissal. “That’s what he gets for lying to me.”

“He lied to you?”

“Yes, he did. He said that he was calling just to wish us a merry Christmas, and I might have bought that if he’d ever done so before . . . then he started asking about presents you’d gotten for me . . . If he wanted a suggestion on what to buy that Isabelle, then he should have just said so.”

“‘That Isabelle’?” Attean echoed. “You make her sound like a communicable disease.”

Maria wrinkled her nose and pulled away from her mate to pace the floor that she’d just cleaned. “Not really, but tell me: what do we _really_ know about this woman?”

Attean rolled his eyes and smiled, not surprised to hear the bite of possessiveness enter into his normally mild-mannered mate’s tone. “What do we need to know? She’s staying with Griffin, yes? We have nothing to do with her. Besides, you wrote her a letter, didn’t you? What changed your mind?”

Maria made a face. “He says she’s fat,” she pointed out grudgingly.

Attean cocked an eyebrow. “And for that you will dislike her?”

“Of course not, but you have to agree that he shouldn’t be settling for someone just because she’s there, so to speak.”

“Who says he’s ‘settling’?”

She shot him a droll look that stated quite plainly that she thought her mate was being simplistic. “If she’s fat with huge feet? I’d say he’s ‘settling’. My Osezno is a _very_ good-looking man! He deserves to have a mate as good-looking as he is!”

“Be that as it may, don’t you think that it’s Griffin’s choice to make? Maybe he is looking past the surface.”

“But if there isn’t any attraction—”

“And you’re just assuming things.”

She snorted and shook her head before pinning him a level scowl as Maria resumed her pacing once more. “No, the more I think about it, the more worried I get,” she maintained. “Osezno is like a son to me—”

“Highly improbable since he is a far sight older than you,” Attean pointed out.

“That hardly matters,” she countered, waving her hand to brush aside Attean’s words once more. “We nursed him back to health, remember? He’s family—as close to family as we have.”

“Of course,” Attean agreed though she could still hear the trace amusement in his tone. “I wouldn’t argue that.”

But Maria wasn’t finished. “—And as such, we bear a certain measure of responsibility for him. You know, it strikes me that he is just too close to the situation to be objective. What if this woman isn’t interested in him? What if she’s a serial murderer?”

Attean blinked a few times as he struggled to grasp Maria’s logic. He gave up with a shake of his head and set the empty beer bottle on the stand beside the telephone. “I thought you said that you had a good feeling about her.”

She chose to ignore his observation. “I think we need to take a vacation. How does _Maine_ sound to you?” Maria stated, shaking her head in such a way as to let Attean know that she believed that he was merely being simple. “It’s easy to give a good impression when you’re not face-to-face with someone, now isn’t it? We don’t _really_ know a thing about her . . . Who is her family? What does she want from Griffin? Why is she staying with him? Do you know the answers to any of those?”

“Yes, I do,” he admitted in an effort to appease his wife’s growing angst.

She pivoted on the ball of her foot and raised her eyebrows in silent question, wrapping her arms over her stomach as she pointedly waited for him to go on.

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he assured her. “Let him alone. I think he is quite old enough to fend her off—if that is what he wants to do.”

She made a face and uttered a terse little ‘hrumph’ but didn’t say another word as she stomped out of the kitchen to start supper, leaving a smiling Attean in her wake. He’d call Griffin later, he supposed, and tell him that he’d never, ever bought Maria anything even remotely ‘useful’ for Christmas . . . Besides that, there were a few other things that he needed to tell the bear-youkai, anyway; things he didn’t really want to mention in front of his gentle wife who worried enough about everything, as it was . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

The creak of the stairs under his weight was the only sound to be heard in the silent house. Isabelle had gone to bed a while ago. She’d been unaccountably preoccupied and almost distant all evening, and while it had bothered Griffin more than he cared to admit, she’d told him with a wan smile that she was simply tired. Too bad he’d seen the letter in her hand; the one she’d been trying to shield from his eyes. She was being charged with malpractice over the death of the McKinley infant, and while he knew that she hadn’t done a damn thing wrong, he also knew that having to defend oneself in light of the charges was a daunting idea at best.

He couldn’t help the feeling of restlessness that he wasn’t able to shake off. Ever since she’d brought those accursed gifts out to flaunt under his nose, as it were, he couldn’t help the twinges of conscience that assailed him whenever he dwelled on the thought that he hadn’t as much as considered buying a thing for her, and he should have, shouldn’t he? After all, with all her excitement over the holiday, it should have occurred to him sooner that she’d probably do something insane, like go out of her way to buy presents for him.

Then again, he supposed it was simple enough to overlook. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had given him anything for Christmas, aside from some homemade cookies or even a silly little ornament that a few of his children had brought him over the years, but a real gift? No, he couldn’t say he’d ever really received anything of the sort . . .

‘ _That’s not true, you know_ ,’ his youkai pointed out as he trudged toward the front door to double check the lock.

‘ _It isn’t?_ ’

‘ _Nope. You’re forgetting that lovely stuffed bear she gave you a while back_.’

That, in Griffin’s estimation, didn’t deserve much more of a response than a terse grunt, which he offered, along with a decisive scowl. The deadbolt lock was turned and secure. All the same, he twisted the knob and rattled it to make sure that it was adequately closed. The last time Attean had visited a few years ago, the hanyou had commented that Griffin ought to consider updating the device in lieu of an electronic key-card lock. Griffin had declined with an offhanded shrug. What was that old saying? ‘ _If it ain’t broke_ . . .’

Shaking his head in an effort to forget his youkai’s commentary, Griffin turned on his heel and headed for the kitchen. A cup of tea would help settle his thoughts. In any case, it couldn’t really hurt. He’d even given in and had called Maria, for God’s sake. He really couldn’t get much more desperate than that . . .

He trudged into the kitchen and stopped short as a strange sense of warmth filtered through him when he noticed that Isabelle had refilled his battered old teakettle and had left it on the stove over low heat to keep it hot. She did things like that a lot, didn’t she, and as much as he liked to grumble and complain about her presence in his home, he had to admit, at least to himself, that the little things she did . . . they meant something to him. He’d noticed before that she always made sure that there was a fresh, clean towel and washcloth sitting on the sink in the morning when he went to take his shower. She was forever baking little goodies like the molasses and pecan cookies that he enjoyed with his tea . . . leaving his teakettle on the stove . . . even turning his shoes so that all he had to do was step right into them before he left the house in the mornings . . .

Even as he reached for the clean, dry mug she’d left on the counter next to his honey jar with a spoon laid carefully over the bottom of the mug, he sighed. She deserved something, didn’t she? Deserved something nice, something special . . . something that he could buy for her that would mean something to her, even if she never really understood the emotional cost of giving away a part of himself; a part that he’d never, ever shared with anyone before, not even Attean and Maria . . .

As if in answer to his troubled thoughts, the sound of the telephone shattered his contemplations. With a grimace—it had startled him and consequently, he’d ended up spilling some of the tea onto his hand when he’d jerked in surprise—he set the cup down and snatched up a hand towel as he hurried out of the kitchen to answer the phone before it woke Isabelle up. “Hello?”

“Ah, Griffin . . . just the man I wanted to speak to,” Attean said, his rich voice warm and friendly despite the late hour.

Stifling a sigh, Griffin grunted waited, knowing damn well that Attean was probably calling to pester him about his earlier phone conversation with Maria. “Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?” he countered almost mildly.

“Of course, of course, but I needed to talk to you first.”

His scowl deepened as he turned on his heel and stalked back toward the kitchen to retrieve the mug of tea. “Oh?”

“Yes . . . it’s about that Eaton Fellowes you mentioned . . .”

That got Griffin’s attention fast, and he paused for a moment before carefully lifting the mug and heading toward the basement door once more. “What about him?”

“Well, I was speaking to one of my contacts, and I happened to mention the name, and he asked me if ‘ _he_ ’ was still using that alias . . .”

“You mean someone knew him? Who is he?”

Attean chuckled then sighed. “According to my contact, his real name is Alastair Gregory.”

Griffin snorted as the steps beneath him groaned and creaked. “Never heard of him.”

“I don’t suppose you have,” Attean ventured. “He’s from Europe, and he rarely travels to the States. Seems to find them a bit too provincial for his tastes, from what I’ve gathered.”

“Provincial, huh?”

“So they say.”

“He’s old—perhaps one of the oldest youkai in Europe, aside from the MacDonnough . . .”

“Does that matter?”

Attean uttered a little sound of agreement. “No, it doesn’t, but . . . you know as well as I do that it means that for one of our kind to have lived that long, he has to possess a certain level of cunning.”

“Warning taken, okay?   If you have something else to say, then just say it.”

“Hmm . . . impatience? From you?”

Setting the tea on the small table beside the old sofa, Griffin dragged his hand over his face and heaved a sigh. “Yeah, but none of that explains why he was after the research to begin with.”

“Research?” Attean repeated.

Griffin grimaced, cursing himself for the blatant slip. “Yeah, research . . . medical research . . .”

“You don’t say.”

“Look, Attean—”

“No, it makes sense. It makes absolute sense . . . Medical research . . . the project your Isabelle asked you to translate for her, no?”

Heaving a sigh, Griffin rolled his hand impatiently in a vain effort to hurry Attean along, letting the reference to ‘his’ Isabelle slip for the moment. “Why? Is he a researcher or something?”

“No. He’s a land developer. Seems a little strange, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, it does,” Griffin allowed, his scowl turning thoughtful. “So why would he care about youkai medical research?”

Attean coughed delicately. “Why, indeed?”

“Attean . . .”

Ignoring Griffin’s unvoiced threat, Attean went on, “More to the point, how would he have gotten wind of the research, in the first place?”

And there was that, too . . . It didn’t really make sense, did it? “Fine, so this Gregory knew about the research and tried to get his hands on it . . . where is he now?” Griffin demanded, deciding that he should focus on the things he could try to figure out instead of worrying over motive.

“That’s the interesting thing—the one thing that didn’t really make sense until you mentioned the research. It all makes _perfect_ sense now . . . You see, according to the information I’ve uncovered, he was recently in Japan for a couple of days.”

“All right,” Griffin prompted when Attean fell silent.

“That wouldn’t have been very noteworthy, except there was an incident about that time.”

“What sort of incident?’”

“A break-in—according to the public records, it was an apparent robbery and vandalization of the Izayoi Clinic . . . Ever heard of it?”

“I-Izayoi?” Griffin repeated, snapping his mouth closed and swallowing hard, his throat suddenly having gone bone-dry.

If Attean noticed Griffin’s distraction, he didn’t remark on it. “Yes, the Izayoi Clinic . . . it was founded by Kichiro Izayoi a few years back—a veritable hospital for youkai and hanyou, and the perfect cover for his research facility . . . The greatest medical mind in the world—that’s what they call him. Sesshoumaru’s nephew—InuYasha’s son—and from what I understand, he’s got certain ties to the Zelig, as well. Anyone in the know would assume that he would be the one to possess the research, don’t you think?”

Griffin made a face and flopped back against the sofa, scowling at the ceiling as he tried to tell himself that the unease he felt was little more than a normal response to something of that nature. He wasn’t buying. “Break-ins happen all the time,” he muttered. “Call it coincidence.”

“I said, ‘according to public record’ . . . Did you know that Kichiro Izayoi has a twin brother? The hunter, Ryomaru?’

“And I’m assuming there is some sort of connection here other than familial bonds?”

Attean uttered a sage ‘hmm’. “One of my contacts in Tokyo said that Ryomaru arrived on the scene shortly after the young man who had apparently broken into the clinic fell to his death from the skywalk above.”

And Griffin understood. Why would the hunter—especially _that_ hunter—be called in to a routine investigation of a random break-in? Still . . . “So he slipped . . .”

“Or was pushed.”

“Spoken like a true detective . . .”

Attean grunted. “The police report said that, according to eye-witness accounts, he landed on his back.”

“So?”

“So,” Attean said with a sigh, “that’s not possible; not if he slipped and fell normally. It’s too short of a distance. If he had tumbled, chances are that he’d have landed head or feet first. If he’d been leaning that far over the edge . . . to slip backward over the railing on those skywalks . . . well, it would be quite something to accomplish.”

“Hmm,” Griffin allowed. “I see . . . then why would the coroner label that the death was accidental?”

“Simple enough . . . the man landed in front of oncoming traffic that couldn’t stop fast enough to avoid impacting with the body. By the time the coroner got it, it might well have looked quite different to him.”

“Is he that inept?”

“The boy was accused of breaking into a prestigious establishment—he had a bag containing all the drugs he’d stolen on his person . . . and I’d imagine that Dr. Izayoi wanted the publicity over the robbery to be kept to a minimum so that humans wouldn’t find out what kind of research he was doing there.”

It made sense, certainly. If he was doing youkai research, he would try to keep humans from learning about it, whether by accident or design. Still, it seemed a little _too_ obvious, didn’t it? “Wouldn’t it look like something was being covered up?”

“Perhaps . . . then again, perhaps not. While I have little doubt that Dr. Izayoi is beyond repute in the matter, I have noticed over my years as an investigator that it’s amazing what one does not see when they are not looking for it.”

“So you think that the hierarchy just didn’t notice the discrepancies because they didn’t want to?”

“Entirely possible.”

“And the coroner?”

“Even a coroner can misjudge something—especially something that looks so cut-and-dried.”

“You think that this Gregory person set the whole thing up?”

“There’s that . . . Of course, he obviously didn’t get his hands on the research, but . . .”

Griffin grimaced and sat up, hunching forward with his elbows on his knees as a dull throbbing erupted behind his eyes.   “So he doesn’t know who has the research. Good.”

“Griffin . . .” Attean said slowly, almost carefully, “suppose you tell me how your Isabelle came to have it, in the first place? If this research is that volatile—”

He sighed, rubbing his forehead with a slightly shaking hand. “She . . . she’s Zelig’s granddaughter . . . Kichiro Izayoi’s daughter . . .”

Attean sucked in a sharp breath. “You don’t say.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I do say.”

Attean sighed. “And this is why you were worried about Alastair Gregory, to start with,” he concluded.

“He’s already killed to get his hands on the research,” Griffin reminded him.

“Mm,” Attean agreed. “But it is just a matter of time before he learns who has the research, don’t you think?”

Wrinkling his nose and snorting loudly at the unnecessary reminder, he sighed, too. “Anything else?” Griffin asked pointedly.

Attean didn’t answer right away. Griffin had a feeling that he was trying to figure out a good way to ask whatever demented question that was swirling around his head. “Maybe,” he said slowly, as though he didn’t expect that Griffin would take whatever he had to say very well, “ _maybe_ you ought to consider telling the Zelig about your suspicions.”

“No,” Griffin stated flatly, his head snapping up as an irrational surge of anger shot through him at the suggestion. “ _No_.”

“Think about it: he has the wherewithal to do something about this before Alastair Gregory figures out that she—and by association, you—have the research. You _are_ worried about her safety, no?”

Unable to staunch the rapid flow of blood that infiltrated his cheeks, Griffin shot to his feet and paced the length of the basement floor, clenching and releasing his fist time and again in a futile effort to alleviate the rising irritation that was curling around his very being. “Are you implying that I cannot protect her?” he bit out evenly.

Attean cleared his throat. “Absolutely not,” he replied mildly. “What I am saying, though, is that you do not have to let yourself be involved any more than you already are.”

“It’s too late to worry about that,” he grumbled, shrugging his shoulders as though he were repairing the unseen dents left in his pride. “Besides, there isn’t anyone else who could translate the research.”

“Of course not,” Attean remarked then drew a deep, cleansing breath. “So suppose you tell me the real reason you called Maria earlier?”

Griffin winced. He’d figured that Attean wanted to ask that. To be honest, he’d figured that Attean would ask long before now. That didn’t mean that he was any closer to answering the question. Hell, no . . . the last thing he really wanted to do would be to admit that he’d been fishing for gift ideas for Isabelle’s godforsaken present . . . “I already told her; I was just calling to wish you a, uh, good Christmas.”

“And you think that she believed you? She didn’t, by the way, and I don’t, either.”

Griffin grunted and sank down on the sofa once more. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grumbled.

Attean sighed and paused. In the background, Griffin could hear the unmistakable sound of ice cubes ratting in a glass. “Since you seem so hell-bent on not telling me why, I suppose I should be the bigger man and offer you my bit of advice, anyway.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Griffin muttered.

Attean chuckled. “I thought so. Anyway, if you are searching for gift ideas for your Isabelle—”

“She isn’t ‘my’ Isabelle,” he interjected.

“That’s trivial, and besides; if you are going to buy her a Christmas gift when you’ve never done so before, then she most certainly _is_ your Isabelle.”

“Demented is what you are. Besides, Maria said you buy her _appliances_.”

“Maria lied.”

Griffin snorted indelicately. “Maria never lies.”

“Ah-ah . . . Maria never gets _caught_ telling a lie. There’s a big difference. Anyway, your best bet would be to find out what she likes. You know, do a little reconnaissance of your own.”

“And how would I do that?”

Attean stood up; Griffin could hear the creak of the chair he’d been sitting in followed moments later by the splash of liquid. “I would never propose that you pry into her personal effects, but . . . Maria did have a trunk when she came to live with me, and that trunk proved to be invaluable during our first Christmas . . .”

“I knew it. You can’t be trusted,” Griffin muttered.

Attean sighed. “Now do you want to hear my suggestions or not?”

“. . . Let’s hear it.”

Attean’s laughter forced Griffin to grit his teeth so hard that his jaw ticked under the strain. “Buy her something entirely frivolous,” he said, oblivious to Griffin’s irritation. “A porcelain figurine . . . a crystal bauble . . . an expensive bit of jewelry or a fur . . . Of course, if she’s an animal rights activist, then the fur might be in poor taste . . . Women like pretty things. It really isn’t that difficult.”

Griffin digested that for a moment. It seemed like better advice than the appliance idea. Too bad he still wasn’t quite sure exactly what to get the woman in question. “What did you get for Maria this year?” he asked instead.

“This year? I bought her a very lovely, very expensive strand of pearls. Granted, I might have to return it and buy that dishwasher she has apparently been coveting . . .”

“Thought you said that was a lie,” Griffin remarked.

“It was, but she did tell you that it was what she wanted, yes?”

“Sounds like you have a death wish.”

Attean grunted. “How could she hold it against me when I am simply trying to please her?”

“Yeah, I’m not going to your funeral,” Griffin pointed out.

“Sure, you will.”

“You can think that . . .”

“I do, absolutely . . . In any case, you cannot go wrong with jewelry. Just don’t buy pierced earrings for her if she doesn’t have pierced ears—and pay attention to the clerk. If she gets that polite little smile on her face, then it means that the bit of jewelry is gaudy or otherwise undesirable.”

“And you know this because . . .?”

Attean laughed—one of those laughs that said clearly that he thought Griffin was being obtuse. “I’ve bought Maria a lot of jewelry. Let’s leave it at that.”

Griffin snorted and shook his head. “Jewelry, huh?”

“Absolutely. Anyway, as much as I am enjoying our little conversation, I have a warm bed to crawl into—and a warmer mate waiting there for me. I’ll see what I can do, as far as getting more information on our friend, Gregory . . . keep me posted if anything should come up.”

“Yeah,” Griffin allowed, letting out his breath in a long, slow gust. Lowering the receiver and clicking the ‘end’ button, he stared at the device for a long minute. “Jewelry . . .”

It sounded like decent advice. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before. Then again, his brain just wasn’t wired to think in terms of frivolous, he supposed. Too pragmatic, too serious, the idea of something like jewelry really hadn’t occurred to him. It made sense, though. After all, Isabelle had everything else, didn’t she? She was a successful doctor, even if she hadn’t been practicing that long. She could afford to buy everything she wanted, and even if she weren’t a doctor, she belonged to one of the richest families in the world.

No, the idea of buying something like that for Isabelle was the best one he’d had since he’d started thinking about getting something for her. The only real problem was that he hated—absolutely loathed—the idea of having to go into a place like a jewelry store. He always felt so out of place the few times he’d been forced to go somewhere like that. He supposed that the real question was whether or not he believed that buying a gift for Isabelle was worth the trouble of setting foot into what had to be the real No-Man’s-Land . . .

He heaved a sigh and winced as he downed the now-cold tea, setting the mug aside with a heavy thump.

‘ _Yeah_ ,’ he supposed as he frowned thoughtfully at the fire dancing on the hearth. ‘ _Yeah, she . . . she is_ . . .’

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Attean_** :  
>  _A gift for Isabelle, hmm_ …


	31. Family Matters

Griffin scowled at the brightly lit display window, wondering for the thousandth time if he weren’t making a huge mistake. He’d spent the majority of the morning rummaging around in Isabelle’s things and feeling like some sort of deviant in the process: just a bare step above cat-burglar, or so he figured. Even so, the worst of it had been when he’d inadvertently opened her panty drawer.   Against his better judgment, he’d pulled a pair out of there with a marked frown as he tried to rationalize exactly how the itty bitty scrap of fabric in his hands could possibly be considered an undergarment of any kind. No, it had looked more like a torture device of sorts, especially when he’d finally figured out pretty much how they’d be worn. When that realization had dawned on him, he’d been unable to stop the flow of blood that coursed to his face, just as he’d been powerless to stop the sharp gasp of breath that whistled into his lungs. He’d always suspected that Isabelle was a bit of a sadist. He was positive now. Any woman who’d willingly wear underpants with a tiny string that comprised the backside of it had to be a few eggs short of a dozen, as far as he was concerned.

‘ _You inspected her panties but refused to as much as lay a finger on her bras . . . that’s a little warped, if you ask me,_ ’ his youkai chided.

‘ _Shut up_ ,’ he grumbled, scowl darkening as he perused the array of jewelry laid out in the window display. ‘ _I wasn’t inspecting them; I was trying to figure out what the hell they were_.’

‘ _Yeah, okay, if you say so, but you know, if you try to tell yourself that you were still trying to get gift ideas from that particular drawer, then you really_ are _living in denial_ . . .’

He snorted. ‘ _As if! Like I’d buy her more underpants like that—if that’s even what they were, and I’m really having my doubts about that_.’

‘ _You’re right; the last thing you’d want to do is buy her something that intimate . . . but how about a diamond? Women love diamonds, or so I’ve heard_ . . .’

Blushing furiously at the implications in the idea of buying Isabelle such a thing, Griffin grimaced and resolved not to speak to his annoying youkai blood, even if it killed him. No, best not to think about it and just do it, right? It was simple, wasn’t it? Pull open the door and walk into the store, buy a pretty necklace or something and get the hell out as fast as he could, right?

His hand was shaking as he reached for the handle. ‘ _Right_ . . .’

The sounds of the town dulled and faded as the door slowly closed behind him. The air lock resounded in his ears like gunfire, and it was all he could do to keep from wincing as he rather nervously adjusted the collar of his coat, flicking it up and tilting his face just enough to hide the part that wasn’t covered by his hair. It was second nature, really. He’d perfected the art of hiding himself centuries ago. He’d always hated the probing stares, the looks of almost comical horror—comical, that was, if they hadn’t been gaping at him, anyway . . .

Forcing his feet to move, he kept his gaze lowered, peeking up through his eyelashes as he hesitantly approached the counter and the nearest sales girl. She was jabbering on about a Christmas party she’d attended over the weekend, and she didn’t seem to notice him at all until one of the other girls laid a hand on her arm and nodded in Griffin’s direction.

“Good afternoon, sir!” she greeted brightly, her smile just wide enough to be welcoming but small enough to keep it from seeming genuine. “Can I help you find something?”

Clearing his throat—strange how it had suddenly closed up—he shrugged and readjusted his collar. “Uh, y-yeah,” he stammered. “Please.”

“Okay,” she replied, “do you know what you’re looking for?”

Concentrating on ignoring the curious stares that he could feel without having to see, he shuffled his feet, painfully aware of just how out of place he was in a place like that. Surrounded by delicate décor and impossibly fragile looking jewelry, he couldn’t help it as the unease built, layer upon layer, as the whispers of the other salesgirls thundered through his skull though at the moment, they just seemed curious. At least he could be thankful for that . . .

“Good God, he’s a big man,” one of them whispered.

Her cohort giggled softly. “A little _too_ big, if you ask me. He looks like he could snap you in half, don’t you think?”

“Oh, I don’t know . . . big men have bigger _parts_ , if you know what I mean . . .”

“That big? Jeez, he really would kill you . . .”

Griffin blinked rapidly as he fought to keep his face from exploding in crimson color. “Just something,” he forced himself to say, his voice dropping to a breath above a whisper. “I-It’s for a . . . a friend.”

The woman’s mouth rounded in an exaggerated ‘oh’, and she offered him a conspiratorial sort of wink, as though the two of them had just shared a huge secret . . . or made a suicide pact . . . “I see . . . Well, we’re having a sale on Disney charm bracelets.   They’re the add-a-link kind, so you can always add more charms later. They come with a single charm now, but if you wanted to buy more of them, we carry some individual ones, too. Would you like to see one of those?”

He grimaced. “Ah, w-Sh-She . . . She’s not a cub,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

Shaking his head slightly, he concentrated on ignoring the running commentary from the other girls, though he wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or not when another young man breezed into the store. The one girl called out to the newcomer, thus effectively ending the speculation about him. “O-Okay,” he said when he realized that the clerk was looking at him expectantly.

She reached below the counter top and punched in the code necessary to release the lock on the jewelry display. A soft beep confirmed that the code was accepted, and she slid the case open, reaching inside for the charm bracelet she’d been telling him about.

“Here,” she said, holding out the delicate bit of gold for his inspection. “As you can see, it’s a lovely piece; very popular with women of all ages. I bought my grandmother one for her birthday, and she adores it. Would you like to take a better look at it?”

“Oh, uh, o-okay,” he said slowly, lifting his hand to intercept the trinket. She laid it across his glove-encased hand and stepped back. Griffin stared at the piece for a moment though he couldn’t honestly say that he was actually looking at it. The man who had come in after him was shopping for an engagement ring, and the girls seemed to be enjoying their task of showing him different rings.

A clatter made Griffin jump. One of the girls had dropped a ring on the glass counter. The sound was unnaturally harsh in his ears, and his head jerked to the side in absolute reflex. Before he could think about it, he heard it: the sharp gasp as the girl who had been smiling at him stepped back, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as her eyes bugged out; as the color leeched from her skin.

Dropping the bracelet on the counter, Griffin hurriedly readjusted his collar, silently cursing himself for the momentary lapse. The girl recovered her composure quickly enough, pasting an overly bright smile on her face as she looked everywhere but directly at him, as she tried to cover her faux pas with a flutter of her hands and a sudden and transparent discourse on the winter weather. The other salesgirls were staring at him now, too. He could hear them talking in hushed whispers to another, words that he wasn’t meant to hear, “. . . Horrible scars . . . what a shame, too. He’d be so good-looking otherwise . . .”

Swallowing hard and trying to pretend that he couldn’t hear the conversation, he gestured at the bracelet still lying haphazardly on the counter. “That’s fine,” he muttered. “I-I-I’ll take it.”

“You wouldn’t like to see anything else?” she questioned.

Griffin shook his head quickly, unable to deal with the false kindness, the saccharine sweetness of her contrived tone. She thought he was a monster, and he knew it. The last thing she really wanted to do was to help him any more than she had to.

“Great!” she gushed, her smile shifting into something more of a normal expression—relief that he was going to keep it short, he supposed. “I can gift wrap this for you if you’d like?”

He shook his head again as he dug into his pocket for his checkbook. “No,” he mumbled. “H-How much is it?”

The girl quickly scanned the tiny tag dangling from the bracelet and forced another overly-polite smile. “Your total is three hundred ninety-eight dollars and fifty-seven cents, sir.”

Fumbling with the silver ball-point pen he kept in his checkbook, Griffin gritted his teeth and willed his hand to grip the pen. He’d been having more difficulty than normal of late, probably due to the weather, and the glove he stubbornly refused to remove simply wasn’t helping him in the least. Wincing as a dull pain reverberated up his arm, he refreshed his grip on the thin barrel and started to make out the check.

Still concentrating as he was did little to dull his sense of hearing. The snide little sniggers and the harsh whispers tumbled one upon the next, ripping wide the gaping maws of anguish that he’d never quite forgotten. ‘ _Monster . . . defiler . . . murder_ . . .’ Were those the things that what they were saying? It didn’t matter, not in the end. Biting down on the side of his cheek until blood flowed freely in his mouth, Griffin forced his hand to move.

After a minute of fighting with the pen, he grunted in frustration and bit down on the middle finger of the old leather glove, yanking it off in a fluid movement before retrieving the pen once more.

“Um, y-you know sir . . .” the girl began in a stunted tone. Griffin glanced up long enough to see the utter revulsion in her eyes as she gawked at his thickly scarred hand. “We have . . . a check writer. If you’d just sign your check . . .”

Griffin winced inwardly. He was used to this sort of reaction whenever someone saw his scars for the first time. Even the university students tended to react with the same sort of expression, even though they tried to hide it, and even though they got over it quickly enough. It was always the same— _always_ the same.

Scribbling on the signature line, he muttered something under his breath. He wasn’t even sure what he’d said as he ripped out the check and scooted it across the counter to the girl.

“Y-Your license,” she stammered, her cheeks riddled with color as she hastily slipped the blank check into the writer.

Pushing the checkbook around, he waited. He never drove, so it had seemed as good a place as any for the God-forsaken mockery—the identification card that bore one of the few actual pictures of him in existence. It seemed to him that it took the girl an inordinately long time to write down the numbers on the check. Finally—mercifully—she pushed it back with a brittle smile as she brandished the printed check for his perusal. He didn’t look it as he nodded, as he reached for the checkbook and stuffed it back into his pocket. Pulling the glove back over his disfigured flesh, telling himself that it was almost over . . .

“Here you are, sir . . . There’s an unconditional money back guarantee for the first ninety days after purchase,” she said, her voice resuming the efficient tone that she’d used in the beginning: the polite smile, all traces of her discomfort gone as she extended the small black plastic bag to him.

“Th-Thank you,” he muttered, taking the bag, grimacing inwardly when she nearly dropped it in her reluctance to as much as brush his hand with hers. He stuffed that into his pocket, too, as he turned and headed for the door.

The air on the street was welcome. The cold wind rose as though to dispel the lingering unpleasantness; the remnants of his utter humiliation. Even the knowledge that he’d done what he’d set out to do did little to comfort him.

Ducking his chin, hunching his shoulders forward, he trudged down the sidewalk, wanting nothing more than to reach the sanctity of his home—the place where he didn’t have to hide, where he didn’t have to feel as though he were little more than a monster. The place where Isabelle . . .

The place where Isabelle called home, at least for now.

The sudden flash of bright golden eyes drew him up short, and he blinked at the empty air before him. The harsh whispers dissipated, replaced by the soft chime of her laughter, and leaving behind a delightful warmth, a desperately needed bolster when he had nearly faltered. She was the one who had never really looked at him like that, had she? Even when she’d seen his chest, his back, the look on her face, he understood. She’d felt for him, for the pain he’d endured, and not once had she looked at him as though she thought he was somehow inadequate . . . Not once had she looked at him as though he were a monster . . .

A slow sense of calm ebbed over him, soothing the frayed ends of his raw nerves and pushing back the ugliness of the memories; a softness that reminded him of her laughter. It offered him the sorely needed will to move on; lent him the strength to brush off the words that were spinning through his head; those words he wasn’t supposed to have heard. She would be home soon, and she would smile at him, laugh for him, and maybe for a while he’d be able to forget that there really was a world outside the walls that contained her and the warmth of her aura.

‘ _Isabelle_ . . .’

And it was that thought alone that carried him home.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Gunnar blinked and sat up straight when the festively wrapped box thumped onto the desk mere inches from his face, only to find himself staring directly at his cousin, whom he hadn’t seen since the confrontation at the bear-youkai’s house. She wasn’t smiling though she didn’t seem entirely angry at him anymore—not that it mattered to him. He was just looking out for her well-being, and if she didn’t like that, then it was just too bad.

“Hello, Izzy,” he greeted rather brusquely before pushing the gift away from the file he’d been reading.

Isabelle nudged the gift toward him just a little as she sat on the edge of his desk. “Merry Christmas, Mamoruzen,” she said, her tone light, even—almost cold.

“I’m surprised to see you,” he commented, sitting back and tossing the ink pen down.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m still irritated with you,” she said as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “But it’s the holidays, and since you can’t help the fact that you’re an arrogant ass, then I really can’t hold it against you, can I?”

He almost smiled—almost. Crossing his arms over his chest as he quirked an eyebrow, he nodded slowly. “If you’re waiting for me to apologize for being concerned about your well-being, you can keep waiting.”

Those bright golden eyes narrowed menacingly, and Gunnar figured that any other man might well be a little intimidated by that sort of expression, especially from a drop-dead gorgeous woman like Isabelle. Too bad he knew damn well that she was all bark and no bite, so to speak. “Are you really so conceited that you honestly believe that I spend my days worrying about whether or not you’ll ever apologize for anything you’ve ever done?” she asked, her tone dry, brittle.

He chuckled. “One day you’ll thank me,” he assured her.

She rolled her eyes and stood up, sparing a moment to smooth the form-fitting cream mohair sweater over her hips. “No, I don’t think I will,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she leaned over the desk, planting her hands dead center and leaning in. Eyes snapping, cheeks pinked with her righteous indignation, she really was a sight to see, this cousin of his . . . “Leave him alone, Mamoruzen. Just leave him alone.”

“No.”

Heaving a sigh, she pushed herself up and shook her head before turning away and reaching for the coat she’d dropped over the back of a chair. “He’s a good man; I don’t care what you say.”

“That’s my point, Izzy,” he finally said, stopping her in her tracks as she reached for the doorknob. She stopped but didn’t turn to face him. Gunnar sighed, rubbing his temple. “You don’t _know_ that. No one does. Thing is . . . men who have nothing to hide _don’t_ hide. Can’t you understand that?”

She chuckled though the sound was hollow at best, perfunctory at worst. “And you’ve never made a mistake in your life? You’ve never done something that you weren’t particularly proud of? Must be nice to be so perfect, Mamoruzen, and given my choice between an insufferable man who’s never made a mistake in his better-than-thou life, and one who is kind and gentle and sweet who has made a mistake or two, I think I’ll take your perceived imperfections any day, thank you very much.”

Gunnar sat back, his chair creaking with the sudden movement. “It’s not that he has made mistakes as much as the idea that he is trying his damndest to hide them. Izzy . . . You don’t know anything about him. How can you say you love someone when you don’t really know who he is?” he countered mildly.

Shaking her head, she heaved a sigh and whirled around to face him. Gaze flashing with rising temper, cheeks blossoming in a surge of angry color, youki spiking with an electric sort of tension, she pinned him with a disbelieving stare as she slapped her gloves against her empty palm. “I don’t need you to look out for me,” she informed him. “I don’t need you to tell me what’s best for me when you can’t even figure that much out for yourself. Griffin is a damn good man, and it doesn’t matter to me what you have to say about him. I don’t need your permission for anything. When he’s ready— _if_ he’s ready—then I’ll be willing to hear him out, but you . . . you have no right to cast aspersions at him, do you? No,” she surmised with a shake of her head, “I really don’t think you do . . .”

“You know,” Gunnar went on, ignoring Isabelle’s tirade, “has he told you how he got those scars?”

She blinked in surprise, caught off guard by his sudden change in topic. “What does that matter to you?” she countered, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

“Don’t be stupid, Izzy. Has he?”

She didn’t answer him right away. He had a feeling that she was counting to twenty in an effort to contain her temper. “I hardly think that’s any of your business,” she bit out tersely.

He let out a deep breath full of resignation and slowly narrowed his gaze on her. “So he doesn’t trust you. I didn’t think so.”

“You really _are_ a bastard, aren’t you?” she said, shaking her head in abject disbelief. “Just because he doesn’t want to talk about something that is obviously painful for him doesn’t mean that he distrusts me.”

Gunnar smiled insincerely. “Doesn’t it? As I see it, that’s _exactly_ what it means. If you really were his mate—if he truly believed that—then he’d tell you everything, regardless of whether or not it’s a painful memory for him.”

Her eyes widened, and she nodded slowly, the smile that surfaced full of disbelief. “And you know this because you’ve had a relationship that’s lasted more than a few months before you get bored and start looking elsewhere? You know this because the women you date never have a chance in hell of actually being your real mate? You know this because you’ve actually given a damn about someone other than yourself? You haven’t, you know. You sit there and cast judgment upon everyone but kami forbid you ever bother to turn that discerning eye on yourself.”

“This isn’t about me, Izzy,” he reminded her.

She forced a tepid smile and jerked the door open. “Hmm, well . . . Maybe it should be.”

Gunnar watched her go and sighed, fishing in the desk drawer for the half-empty pack of cigarettes he kept there. He really hadn’t meant to agitate her again. He just wished that she could understand that there was something fundamentally wrong when the man she claimed to be her mate was hiding things as stubbornly as Griffin Marin was.

Which was another reason that Gunnar was in such a dark mood despite the impending holiday . . .

He hadn’t realized nor had he ever thought that there would be quite so many legends involving bears in North America. Apparently, there were, and every night, he waded through website after website, printing out ones that struck him as important while discounting the more fantastical ones while Myrna worked to do the same thing on her end. All he needed was one of these legends to say something concrete, something he could use to pinpoint Griffin Marin’s whereabouts so that he had a lead to follow . . . Taking a drag off the cigarette he’d just lit, he let his head fall back against the chair and released a slow stream of smoke that rose in the air in a fragile string that frayed as it escalated, only to dissipate into nothing to disburse in the quiet.

A curt knock sounded on his open door, and Gunnar blinked and turned his head in time to see his secretary leaning casually in the doorway with a coffee mug in each hand. When Connie noticed his attention, she pushed away from the jamb and strode into the office, setting one mug on the desk and sitting in one of the two thickly cushioned chairs facing him.

“So what are you sticking your nose into this time, Inutaisho?” she asked in the no-nonsense way that he admired about her.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied, lifting the mug of coffee to his lips and savoring the bitter brew.

“Don’t you?” she challenged, arching her eyebrows as she leaned forward to set her mug on the desk.

“Izzy has terrible taste in men,” he remarked—a good enough answer, as far as he was concerned.

Connie rolled her eyes and dug a cigar out of the pocket of the long white sweater she wore every day during the winter. He watched with a measure of amusement as she pulled the paper seal off and tossed the plastic wrapper into the garbage can. “Isn’t that for her to decide?” Connie asked, retrieving the lighter that Gunnar scooted across the desk.

“Of course not,” he insisted, a little smile twisting the corners of his lips as he watched Connie light the unseemly smoke. “She’s my cousin, after all, and she’s never had much in the way of common sense.”

“That’s what my husband used to say about me,” she replied, her gaze clouding over momentarily as she indulged herself in her memories.

“You’ve got more common sense than anyone I know,” he said, snuffing out his cigarette before leaning back, steepling his fingertips together in an idle sort of way.

“And Isabelle will, too. It comes with age, you know. Anyway, I’ve got to side with her on this. This guy she’s interested in really isn’t any of your business . . . unless he owes you money. Does he?”

Gunnar snorted and shook his head. “No, he doesn’t. That still doesn’t matter. He’s not good enough for Izzy, and that’s all there is to it.”

Connie uttered a very unladylike snort. “If women waited around for a man who was good enough for her, half of the general population would cease to exist,” she scoffed. “Leave her alone, will you? She’s a smart girl, even if you don’t think she is.”

“I’m not questioning her intelligence,” Gunnar grumbled.

“Then have some faith. It’s Christmas time, remember? The season of faith and goodwill toward men.”

Gunnar couldn’t help the little smile that surfaced as he reached for his coffee once more. “Goodwill toward men, huh?” he repeated. “Hmm . . .”

“Sounds to me like you’re selling your cousin a little short,” Connie mused over her coffee mug.

Gunnar shot the woman a sidelong glance. “No, I’m not.”

“Are you sure?”

One ebony eyebrow arched at her contention. “Are you really implying that I would do such a thing?”

“Maybe not intentionally,” Connie allowed with a shake of her head. “But you know something?”

“What?”

Breaking into a wry smile, she shook her head and got to her feet once more. “She’s a grown woman, whether you like it or not, and sometimes we grown women don’t appreciate it when anyone tries to tell us what to do, no matter what they believe to be right.”

That earned her a marked snort. “Yes, well, it’s been left up to men to show women the error of their ways when they’re too stubborn or too blind to see what is staring them in the face.”

Connie heaved a sigh and reached for his mug before turning on her heel and heading for the doorway. “If you think so, boss. Just you be careful, or you’ll piss her off beyond all reason.”

He didn’t comment as she strode out of the office, pondering her claim before heaving a sigh and flicking his wrist to check his watch. No, it didn’t matter in the end. Isabelle would get over it, or she wouldn’t, but either way, Gunnar knew—just knew—that Griffin Marin was definitely hiding something . . . and he was going to find out what it was or die trying . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
> … _Jewelry_ …


	32. Home Remedies

Isabelle bit her lip and cleared her throat in an effort to keep her amusement in check as Griffin stomped around the room with a black scowl on his face and uttering a low growl that was only interrupted when a hiccup forced its way to the surface.

‘ _Ah, behold the mighty bear, felled by but a single hiccup_ ,’ she mused.

‘ _Entirely untrue_ ,’ her youkai pointed out. ‘ _A single hiccup might have been alright, but he’s done nothing but hiccup for nearly twenty minutes_ . . .’

As if in testament to the observation, Griffin’s shoulders lurched as a very pronounced hiccup rattled out of him.

“Are you okay, big guy?” she queried, sounding entirely sympathetic. Too bad she couldn’t help the completely unrepentant grin that lit her face . . .

That earned her an even darker frown as he paused in his pacing long enough to narrow his eyes on her. “You’re not nearly as funny as you thi—think you are,” he grumbled, his words punctuated by another hiccup.

She giggled. “You know, my uncle always said that going for a nice run would get rid of hiccups,” she ventured, twisting around and resting her hands on the armrest as she followed Griffin’s stodgy movements.

He snorted. “It’s _five_ degrees outside. I’m no—ot going for a run.”

“It always seemed to work for him,” she pointed out.

Griffin opened his mouth, probably to tell her that he thought she was being a pest, but another hiccup cut him off. “How often did he get hiccups?” he demanded, his expression full of suspicion.

Wrinkling her nose as she made a show of trying to consider the answer to Griffin’s question, Isabelle tapped her chin with a delicate claw. “Hmm, not too often, if memory serves . . .”

He grunted at that. “Uh huh. Forget it.”

“Okay, okay . . .” she drawled, holding her hand up and splaying her fingers as she inspected her claws. “I’m just trying to help . . .”

He hiccupped again then growled menacingly—at least, it might have been menacing if he weren’t periodically interrupted by the same hiccups that were the source of the initial irritation. She opened her mouth to tell him that anything was worth at least one try. He held up a finger two inches from her nose to silence her before whipping around on his heel and stomping out of the living room. Moments later, she heard the creak of the front door opening and the very distinct sound of Griffin’s mumbled complaints—and another hiccup.

She laughed softly as she pushed herself to her feet and wandered toward the window. She couldn’t help it, not really. The man was just too cute for his own good, wasn’t he? The giggling escalated when he jogged past the window with a completely disgruntled expression on his adorably flushed face.

‘ _You really shouldn’t be laughing at the man you want to have as your mate,_ ’ her youkai pointed out reasonably.

‘ _Of course not_ ,’ she agreed easily enough as her laughter wound down to a gentle smile. ‘ _Then again, I’m not laughing_ at _him. I’m laughing_ with _him_.’

‘ _Which might be more believable if he were laughing, too. He’s right, you know. You’re a Jezebel; an_ absolute _Jezebel._ ’

She laughed again, scooping up the still-unnamed kitten as she leaned in and waited for Griffin’s second pass.

‘ _And another thing, while we’re at it_ . . .’

‘ _At what?_ ’

‘ _Hmm_ ,’ her youkai grunted. ‘ _Did you notice anything_ . . . strange . . . _when you got your clothes out to take your shower?_ ’

‘ _Strange . . .?_ ’ she echoed absently as her smile widened when Griffin came into view once more. He didn’t look like he was enjoying himself, but if the exercise got rid of his hiccups, he’d thank her later.

‘ _Yes, strange_.’

‘ _Um, no_ . . .’

‘ _Oh? So you didn’t smell anything odd?_ ’

The little smile quirking her lips widened. ‘ _Oh, that? Well, of course I smelled that . . . Do you suppose he was trying on my panties?_ ’

That earned her a decisive snort. ‘ _I seriously doubt that, but it does make you wonder why he would have been in your drawers, doesn’t it?_ ’

There was that, too . . . Still it was pretty insignificant in the long run, wasn’t it? After all, she really didn’t care if Griffin saw her panties, though if she were to be completely honest, she’d prefer if he saw them while she was wearing them . . .

The front door opened moments later, and she bit the inside of her cheek as she turned and waited for the verdict.

Griffin didn’t appear to be winded, but he did grimace when he stepped into the living room, still brushing snow off his shoulders.

“Well?” she asked since he didn’t seem interested in divulging the results.

Those deep brown eyes very slowly shifted to meet her gaze, and he looked like he was ready to growl at her. His answer, though, came in the way of a very pronounced hiccup, and she couldn’t help but giggle as his expression turned even more foreboding than it already was.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got a few more cures we can try,” she said as she hurried over to him.

“Your cures can burn in hell,” he grumbled.

“Here,” she said, stuffing the kitten into his arms. “Why don’t you just sit down and play with the pussy, and I’ll be right back?”

She waited for his reaction. It was a little slow in coming. Then again, Griffin’s mind just didn’t seem to comprehend things the same way hers did. She’d spent way too much time around her male cousins, she supposed, and one of them in particular—Morio—had a penchant for perversity. He called it a gift . . .

Still it didn’t take nearly as long for Griffin to catch the gist of her innocently asked question, and when he did, he sucked in a sharp breath, his cheeks exploding in indignant color, and he dropped the cat like she was a hot potato, jerking around and crossing his arms over his chest. “ _Jezebel!_ ” he hissed, much to Isabelle’s amusement.

She sighed and shook her head when he hiccupped again. ‘ _Okay, so shocking the hiccups out of him didn’t work, either,_ ’ she allowed. ‘ _What’s next . . .?_ ’

‘ _There’s always_ that _cure_ ,’ her youkai ventured slowly.

‘ _That one?_ ’ she repeated thoughtfully. ‘ _Oh, I don’t think that one is a good idea_ . . .’

‘ _Maybe not, but it always works_.’

Unfortunately, that was true, too . . .

Too bad there was a good chance that if she employed those tactics to rid Griffin of his affliction, he’d lock himself away forever, never to be seen again . . . It was true, though, that it always seemed to work for her parents. She’d seen it a few times in her life . . .

‘ _No, no, no, no_ . . .’ she insisted, jerking open the cupboard and grabbing a glass to fill with water.

‘ _Tell me you don’t want to try it_ ,’ her youkai goaded.

‘ _What I want is entirely beside the point . . . I rather like that Griffin’s a little more comfortable around me. I’d rather not jinx that, thanks_ . . .’

‘ _Coward_.’

‘ _Ignoring you now_.’

‘ _Figures_ . . .’

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Griffin was pretty sure that Isabelle was enjoying his predicament just a little too much, as far as he was concerned. Scowling down at her, cheeks flaming red, he lifted his hand to brush her off as she carefully dabbed at the water he’d spilled all over himself as he’d tried to guzzle down the liquid while pinching his nose closed in a vain effort to rid himself of the blasted hiccups from hell. Too bad he’d ended up hiccupping mid-swallow. The sudden movement had upset the precarious balance between drinking the water and wearing it, and the infernal woman had yet to stop giggling over the accident, damn it.

She was an evil, evil woman, wasn’t she? Between her outrageous commentary and her ridiculous suggestions on how to rid him of the hiccups, he was pretty sure that she was a demon sent from the fiery bowels of hell to torment him for the rest of his life, damned soul that he was. ‘ _It just figures_ ,’ he fumed as she unleashed another round of giggles. ‘ _Laugh at my suffering, will she? We’ll see about that_ . . .’

“When I was little, I used to stand on my head and suck water through a straw to get rid of my hiccups,” she ventured innocently enough.

He knew better. “Supposing I could even stand on my head—a serious doubt, mind—if I hic—” Another hiccup cut him off, and he took a moment to grown in frustration before continuing his statement, which only added to Isabelle’s amusement. “—hiccupped, I’d end up with water shooting out of my nose—no thank you.”

But she must have gotten the visual of that, because her laughter escalated to the point that she slumped against his arm, clutching him with one hand and her stomach with the other, the towel she’d been using to dry him off dangling uselessly from her limp fingers.

It was too much to bear, wasn’t it? Erupting in another low snarl, he was thoroughly incensed when another hiccup interrupted his show of irritation. “It’s not funny,” he gritted out.

“You’re right—absolutely right,” she managed between fits of laughter. “Let’s see . . . _Oh!_ ” Snapping her fingers, she pushed away from him and hurried back toward the kitchen. “Follow me.”

He could think of a million reasons not to do as she instructed since he was certain now that she was just doing things to prolong his agony. If she had her druthers, he’d be hiccupping for the rest of his life . . . Another hiccup rattled through him, and he sighed, stomping after her and ignoring the voice in the back of his mind that told him that he was a glutton for punishment . . .

“Wh—at are you doing?” he demanded as she dug a spoon into the sugar bowl he kept on the counter for her coffee.

“Try this, Dr. Griffin,” she instructed, holding out the heaping spoon with her other hand cupped below to catch anything that happened to spill.

He made a face. “You want me to . . .? Ugh, no.”

“It’s just sugar,” she said, her expression stating plainly that she thought he was being a baby over the entire affair.

“I don’t happen to like sugar,” he informed her.

“What’s not to like? It’s sweet and . . . it’s _sugar!_ Now open up.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at her, trying not to look as petulant as he felt. “ _No_.”

“Oh, _please!_ It’s nothing but a spoonful of sugar! Are you saying that Mary Poppins was wrong?” she countered.

He rolled his eyes. “Wasn’t that to help the medic—cine go down?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Same principal.”

“Aren’t you a doctor?” he demanded, leaning away from the hovering spoon.

“Yes . . . yes I am! So you should listen to me!”

“I _did_ listen to you,” he grumbled. “I lis—listened to you about the r—running, and it didn’t work. I listened to you about the wa—ter, and it didn’t work. I think you’re a quack.”

“A quack?” she repeated with an incorrigible grin.

“Quack.”

She giggled. “Well, you _do_ say I have a fat ass.”

He snorted then hiccupped then growled. “You do.”

“Just try the sugar,” she insisted with another giggle.

He rolled his eyes but finally opened his mouth, but he couldn’t help the disgusted face he made about the second that the sugar hit his tongue. “Urgh,” he choked, waving his hand around for something to force the overly-sweet stuff down his throat.

Isabelle hurriedly filled a glass with some water and stuck it into his hand. “It’s not that bad,” she remarked rather acerbically.

“Speak for yourself,” he mumbled, affecting a full-body shiver to emphasize his point, his voice echoing in the glass that he held tilted to his lips. “Yuck . . .”

“Did it work?”

Griffin paused with the back of his hand poised over his mouth since he’d been in the process of wiping his lips. Before he could answer, though, another hiccup tumbled out of him, and he heaved a frustrated sigh. “No.”

She refrained from giggling—barely. “Okay, okay . . .” Snapping her fingers as another ‘surefire cure’ came to mind, Isabelle spun around and grabbed the honey jar off the table. “Try this,” she said, dipping the spoon and extending it to him as a thin strand of stickiness dripped from the bottom back into the pot.

“Good God, do you have any id—dea how unsanitary that i—is?” he grumbled between hiccups.

Isabelle rolled her eyes and jabbed the spoon in his direction. “Sure, but they’re your germs. Not a big deal, right?”

He snorted loudly, his scowl growing darker by the second, but he opened his mouth and let her feed him the honey.

“Eh?” she prodded as Griffin licked his lips.

He stood stock still for a minute, narrowing his eyes as he slowly shifted his gaze around like he was waiting for the hiccups to set in once more. “Maybe . . .” he began cautiously. “Maybe that worked . . .”

Dropping the spoon into the sink and setting the jar back on the counter, Isabelle laughed. “See? Now you can take back that comment about me being a quack.”

“I wouldn’t go th—at . . . damn it,” he growled, cheeks reddening though she wasn’t certain if he was angry or simply frustrated.

“You poor Pooh bear,” she crooned, her eyes sparkling with wicked amusement. Griffin snorted and turned on his heel to stomp out of the kitchen. She watched him go and shook her head as she reached for the empty glass he’d set on the counter. Pouring about an inch of milk into the cup, she set the cup aside so that she could rummage through a drawer for a straw.

He didn’t have any, of course. It wasn’t something that he’d have purchased himself, and she never bothered to keep any extras that might have been doled out the few times she’d gone through some fast food drive through. She was almost ready to give up on that idea when she remembered the bag of red licorice she’d stashed in the cupboard.

It was safe to assume that Griffin wouldn’t like it, but with any luck, it’d help him get rid of his hiccups . . .

She bit the ends off the licorice and rolled it on the counter to widen the hole in the center. Pausing long enough to eye her handiwork, she dropped the candy into the glass of milk in her hand and headed out of the kitchen to find the disgruntled bear.

He was sitting at his desk once more trying to work on the translation, but every time he put his pen to the paper, a hiccup interrupted him. In fact, he was so preoccupied with his marked discomfort that he jumped when she tapped him on the shoulder to try out the next cure.

She hadn’t actually meant to scare him. It didn’t work to rid him of his affliction, anyway, and only served to earn her a rather petulant scowl. “What are you trying to do?” he demanded, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest as he glowered up at her.

“Well, I wasn’t really _trying_ to scare the hiccups out of you—good thing, too, since it didn’t seem to work.”

He snorted indelicately. “The day that I am sc—ared of you is the day I keel over and die.”

She laughed then winked at him. “Try this.”

Eyeing the glass as though he thought that something evil was dwelling just below the surface, Griffin slowly shook his head. “No. Way.”

“All you have to do is blow,” she informed him with a bright smile. “Just blow until you’ve gotten the bubbles to spill over the top of the glass.”

“Is that . . . candy?” he demanded with an incredulous shake of his head.

“I couldn’t find a straw,” she said, pushing the glass closer.

“No way in _hell_ ,” he scoffed, staring in abject horror at the makeshift straw.

“It worked for me when I was a pup,” she insisted. “Just try it. After all, what can it hurt?”

His expression stated that he was fairly certain that she was simply trying to have a bit of fun at his expense. She couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re enjoyi—ing this,” he growled.

“I’m sorry,” she giggled, waving a hand in front of her face. “Seriously, though . . . it really _did_ always work for me . . . Of course, I always used a real straw, but . . .”

Closing his eyes, he heaved a heavy sigh as a resigned sort of air settled over him. Cheeks reddening, he hunched forward, his forearms resting on the edge of the desk and started to blow.

Biting down on her lip so that she didn’t giggle outright at him, Isabelle managed to refrain from laughing, even when he hiccupped and growled, breaking half of the bubbles he’d managed to accrue. Even the edges of his ears were red, and it was all she could do to keep from reaching out and flicking the tip of the closest one. ‘ _If he had a hanyou baby, would it have little round bear ears?_ ’ she mused.

That thought was nearly enough to send her careening over the edge into a fit of helpless giggles, and she had to press her fingers over her lips to keep from laughing outright. She could just picture it a little too vividly in her mind: Griffin surrounded by five little Griffins, all with cute little rounded bear cub ears sticking out of their shaggy brown hair . . .

Flopping back in his chair, he scowled at the bubbles running down the outside of the glass and sighed when another hiccup slipped out of him. “Forget it,” he muttered, propelling the chair back and rising to his feet. “I am not trying any more of your crackp—pot cures.”

She couldn’t help the wide smile surfaced. ‘ _Sometimes_ ,’ she thought as she watched him, ‘ _he acts just like a big old bear_ . . .’

He pushed himself to his feet and stomped away, probably in search of a towel to sop up the pooling milk, mumbling under his breath about home remedies that didn’t work and disgusting red licorice.

Heaving a sigh, she snagged the licorice and bit off the end, chewing thoughtfully as she waited for his return.

She had been in such a horrendous mood after she’d left Gunnar’s office earlier. His smug attitude just ticked her off, especially when she knew that he was simply being an ass about the entire affair. True, she wanted to know what had happened to Griffin in the past, but it wouldn’t really change the way she felt about him. She knew it wouldn’t. Griffin was her mate; the knowledge grew stronger with every passing day. Gunnar might have good intentions, but that really didn’t give him the right to be such an ass about it all.

But that was how he’d always been. She couldn’t really remember a time when he hadn’t been just a little too serious; a little too pensive. Even as a child, he’d always been a little quieter than Morio—even quieter than Bastian. He wasn’t shy by any means. No, it was more the idea that he was constantly thinking, considering, trying to figure things out, and while that made him a damn good investigator, it also added to his general distrust of anyone that he didn’t know on a more personal level, too.

And he’d always been quick to intervene; to try to put off the boys who showed any real interest in her. She supposed it was just that protective streak in him, and since his own sisters were older, he felt compelled to watch out for someone. Still, they weren’t pups anymore, and Gunnar . . . well, he needed to face the facts. She didn’t need him to tell her who she could and couldn’t spend time with, and she most certainly didn’t need him to give his seal of approval on Griffin . . .

“You’re going to br—eak my desk,” Griffin muttered, cheeks reddening when yet another hiccup cut off his words. Smacking her hip with the towel he’d grabbed, he snorted when she laughed.

“I will not!” she argued, idly swinging her feet, her heels thumping against the built-in file cabinet.

“You will,” he maintained with a stubborn shake of his head, “and watch those boats you call feet, will you?

Snapping her mouth closed on the retort that had formed, Isabelle shook her head and hopped off the desk, casting Griffin a highly chagrined look before planting her hands on her hips as she pivoted to face him.

He was busy cleaning up the spilled milk, but she didn’t miss the sidelong glance he shot her seconds before another hiccup jarred through him. “I told you,” she said somewhat stiffly, “the size of my feet isn’t my fault.”

“I can’t see how you can possibly walk with those without tri—pping all over yourself,” he grouched.

“I-I walk just fine,” she insisted, lifting her chin a notch in a blatant show of stubborn defiance.

“Sure you c—an,” he countered with a shake of his head. “You’re like the female big fo—ot. You’re the Sasquatch of hanyou.”

To her irritation, Isabelle could feel tears welling up in her throat, and she blinked fast to stave them back. “I’m going to bed,” she managed, proud of the steadiness in her voice as she hurried out of the living room.

She couldn’t help it, damn it. The size of her feet had always been a sore point with her. Her cousins had teased her all the time. Her sister, Alexandra had done it, too—Lexi had been blessed with cute, delicate feet like their mother, and she’d enjoyed teasing Isabelle about it. Even her first real boyfriend had teased her about them, and while she’d always tried to act like it didn’t bother her, she had to admit that it did. She had huge feet; she _knew_ she did. She didn’t really need Griffin or anyone else to point that out to her, after all . . .

‘ _He doesn’t know that it bothers you that much_ ,’ her youkai voice pointed out.

‘ _I know_ ,’ she agreed miserably, sniffling as she flopped on her bed and glowered at her obscenely large feet.

Angrily dashing a hand over her damp eyes, Isabelle wrinkled her nose and bent her knees, bringing her feet up under her in a vain effort to hide the offending appendages. Of course she realized that everyone had something that they considered to be a sore spot. It was only natural, after all, and hers happened to be her feet. It was of little consolation, however, and while she wasn’t angry at Griffin, she couldn’t help but feel the sting of his gruff assessment just a bit more acutely than she might have otherwise.

“Why are you leaking again?” Griffin demanded, pushing the door open and stomping into the room with his arms crossed over his chest and a bewildered sort of expression on his face.

“I’m not,” she insisted.

He grunted when she sniffled. “All right,” he agreed slowly. “Then why are you pretending that you’re not leaking?”

“I’ve told you,” she murmured, scowling at the moisture on her fingertips after she wiped her eyes again. “I can’t help it. I’m a freak—a _nasty_ freak—”

“Now you’re just being melodr—amatic,” he informed her with a shake of his head. “This about your feet again?”

To her absolute horror, more tears sprang into her eyes, clouding her vision as she struggled to brush aside the unreasonable upset that gripped her.

Griffin sighed and gingerly sank down on the bed beside her, staring at her for several long moments as she scowled at her hands.   She didn’t have to look at him; she could feel his eyes trying to bore into her skull. He didn’t speak right away, but he did hiccup.

He sighed again as the bed lurched with his sudden movement, and she slid her eyes to the side in time to see him lean over to tug off one of his socks. That done, he extended his leg and wiggled his toes to gain her attention. “That is a bi—ig foot,” he stated flatly. “Yours isn’t.”

She smiled wanly despite herself when he wiggled his toes again. ‘Big’ didn’t exactly describe Griffin’s feet. ‘Huge’ might . . . A regular bear’s paw, she supposed . . . wide and long, she figured that he had trouble finding shoes that actually fit him, and his toes? Short and stubby in comparison to the rest of his foot, his toes were rather chubby with very square nails and a sparse sprinkling of dark brown hair on his toe knuckles and the top of his foot . . . it was easily triple the width of her foot and a good four inches longer, and he wiggled his toes again to emphasize his point. A completely nice, if not blatantly male, foot, she decided as a temerarious smile quirked the corners of her lips. Even the trace of the jagged scar that extended from the shadows of his slacks did little to dispel the effect.

“Let’s s—ee yours,” he muttered, shaking his head at the hiccup that he couldn’t quite get rid of and wiggling his fingers to hurry her along.

Heaving a sigh, she leaned to the side and untucked her leg, sticking it out beside Griffin’s and feeling marginally better at the blatant discrepancy in size. Next to his, her foot seemed so small, so delicate. He snorted when she nudged him with her toes, and she couldn’t help but be amused when she glanced at him only to find him blushing. “Okay, you’ve made your point,” she allowed.

“No more leaking?” he asked quizzically, arching an eyebrow to emphasize his words.

She smiled wanly. “No more leaking.”

“Go—od,” he said then uttered a low growl. The hiccups were fast driving him to the brink of his sanity, and judging from the look of him, he was getting ready to rip something apart if they didn’t let up soon . . .

“You know, Dr. Griffin—”

“ _Marin_.”

She ignored the interruption. “—There _is_ one cure that we haven’t tried.”

His growl cut off abruptly. “I hesitate to a—ask.”

Drawing her foot up and turning to face him, she schooled her features and ignored the tiny voice in her head that insisted that she really shouldn’t suggest what she was about to suggest. “No, no . . . it’s a surefire cure. It always worked for my parents.”

“Another home remedy?”

She nodded slowly. “I guess you could call it that.”

“Is your father a quack, too?”

Giggling softly, Isabelle shook her head and waved a hand in dismissal. “Absolutely not. Do you want to try it?”

He opened his mouth to answer only to be cut off by a particularly harsh hiccup. “Fine,” he grumbled, looking even more disgruntled than he already was.

“All right,” she said, unconsciously pressing the heel of her hand against her chest in a valiant effort to restrain her painfully hammering heart. “Close your eyes.”

He didn’t look like he was going to comply. Sparing a few minutes to narrow his eyes, to let his gaze rake over her face as he tried to figure out just what she was thinking, Griffin finally gave in, albeit with a completely ungraceful snort, and closed his eyes.

‘ _Do it fast, Bitty . . . if you’re going to do it, do it fast before you lose your nerve_.’

Sound advice, that was . . . Resting her hands on his shoulders, tilting her head slightly, she leaned in quickly, her lips pressing against his as her eyes fluttered closed. He gasped—harsh and audible in the quiet—but didn’t try to pull away. Every muscle in his body seemed to tense up like a coil being wound tighter and tighter. Warm and soft despite the underlying clumsiness of the gesture on his part, he did nothing to encourage her, yet he didn’t discourage her, either. She ended the kiss and began again without moving away from him—without giving him time to think.

The undeniable sweetness of the moment brought the sting of tears to her eyes once more, and she sighed softly, content to simply be near him in those moments, willing him to understand just how very precious he was to her, even if he didn’t want to acknowledge it.

But he seemed to come to his senses a little too quickly, and while he did pull away, clearing his throat as his unsteady breathing rattled in the silence that followed. He lifted a shaking hand to adjust his collar, his cheeks flaming red as he struggled to avert her gaze. She supposed she could understand that. After all, she was feeling a little shaky, herself, come to think of it . . .

“W-Why did you do that?” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

She had to clear her throat before she could speak. “I told you; it’s a cure for the hiccups, but . . .”

“But . . .?” he choked out when she trailed off.

“But it has side effects,” she admitted.

Griffin’s cheeks reddened a little more, and he quickly shook his head. “What kind of side effects?”

She wanted to laugh but couldn’t quite manage it. “Well, see . . . the one who does the kissing . . . they take the hiccups.”

It took a moment for comprehension to dawn on him, and when it did, Griffin snorted. “So you’re saying that you’d get the hiccups?”

She nodded slowly. “Something like that.”

She couldn’t help the tender smile that surfaced while she peer up at him through her eyelashes as he slowly and somewhat clumsily got to his feet. Still red-faced and obviously feeling rather uncomfortable, he swallowed hard and made a face. “As I thought . . . another ridiculous ‘cure’.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she ventured mildly. “Your hiccups seem to be gone, don’t they?”

That earned her another decisive snort as he turned to stomp out of her room.

She watched him go, rubbing her fingertips over her lips in an idle sort of way. Sure, she was disappointed that he’d ended the kiss much sooner than she would have liked, but it had to mean something, didn’t it? He hadn’t run away, either, had he . . .?

Griffin hadn’t taken more than five steps down the hallway when he stopped abruptly, his head whipping around to stare back the way he’d come to frown at the warm glow of the bedside lamp that tumbled out of Isabelle’s bedroom. Heaving a sigh, shaking his head, he swallowed hard as the memory of that one kiss replayed in his head, as unaccountable heat burgeoned under his skin almost painfully . . . as the distinct sound of Isabelle’s hiccup resounded in his ears, attesting to the fact that at least one of her insane home remedies actually did work, after all . . .

As he smiled . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
>  _Serves her right_ …


	33. One Simple Gift

“Hel-lo-o-o . . .” Isabelle called out, cupping her hands around her mouth to add volume to her voice as she stood in the empty foyer in the Zelig family’s Bevelle mansion.

No one answered her, which wasn’t entirely surprising. Though both her grandparents’ vehicles were parked in the driveway, she didn’t doubt that the two were likely closeted away in the studio they shared. Cain was probably working on another masterpiece while Gin would either be posing for him or working on her next children’s book.

Setting the dark green paper bag containing the gifts she’d brought on the floor, she headed for the stairs with a soft little giggle. Though she couldn’t exactly say that she missed being a child, there were moments when memories assailed her and made her wish just for a moment that life was still as simple as it was back then; memories of childhood laughter as she tore down these same stairs with Bastian hot on her heels after she’d swiped something from his room to tease him—probably one of his footballs.

The familiar scent of oil paints and linseed oil filtered through the small crack around the studio door, and she lifted her hand to knock on the door. She was stopped short when she heard the familiar sound of her cousin—slash—uncle’s voice from within. “You know, Mom, I think you should bet against the Patriots this year,” he said, obviously making reference to the obligatory Christmas Day football game.

Gin Izayoi Zelig gasped loudly as Isabelle pushed the door open. “Sebastian! Why would I do such a thing?” she scolded, her tone implying that she thought the idea was worse than just about anything else in the world. “I want the Patriots to win!”

“So do I,” Bas countered with a lopsided grin, “and every time you make a bet, the team you bet on loses.”

That earned him a chagrined shake of the head as Gin crossed her thin arms over her chest and snorted in a decidedly unladylike fashion. “Not _every_ time,” she mumbled, her hanyou ears flicking in irritation.

Bas rolled his eyes as Isabelle tugged on his arm to make him bend down so that she could kiss his cheek. “Mom, I’m sorry, but you’ve never won a bet . . . not once.”

“You’re supposed to show your mother more respect than that,” she grumbled. “You’d better hope your father doesn’t hear you.”

Bas chuckled since the aforementioned father was standing not twenty feet away working on a painting and doing a hell of a job ignoring both his wife as well as his eldest son—entirely normal, in Isabelle’s estimation. Whenever Cain Zelig was working on his art, he was hard-pressed to notice much of anything else around him. Gin had often joked that the mansion could burn down, and Cain would be the last to realize it if he was painting or sculpting.

“Back me up here, Bitty,” Bas said, leaning toward her.

Isabelle laughed. “You’re on your own, Bastian,” she deferred. “Merry Christmas, Grandma. I brought your presents out.”

Gin smiled as she hugged Isabelle, her eyes sparkling mischievously at the mention of gifts. “Are you sure you can’t make it out for Christmas day?” she asked as she headed over to Cain’s side.

“Unfortunately, no,” Isabelle went on with an apologetic smile. “I’ve still got a couple ladies who are due any time, and I’d hate to be out here if one of them suddenly went into labor. Besides that, the weather forecasts are predicting a foot more of snow on Christmas Eve.”

“Of course,” Gin agreed as she wrapped her arms around Cain’s waist. He started slightly and blinked, looking completely disoriented for a moment as he glanced around the room. “If it snows, we can play outside! I can make another snow-Cain.”

Cain snorted but grinned. “Snow-Cain, indeed,” he mumbled, blushing slightly before blinking and glancing at his eldest son. “Oh, Bas, when did you get here?”

Bas rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I’ve _been_ here, Dad. You just didn’t notice.”

Cain’s grin widened, and he set his brush aside before reaching behind him to pull Gin against his side and kissing her forehead. “No hug for your grandfather, Isabelle?”

Isabelle giggled as Gin wrinkled her nose. “You’ve got paint all over you, Zelig-sensei! You’ll get it all over her sweater if she hugs you.”

Cain glanced down at his paint smeared bare chest as his smile turned sheepish. “I suppose I would.”

Gin pushed against Cain though she didn’t seem to be exerting any real effort in her quest for freedom. “You’re getting paint all over me!” she protested.

He chuckled, his eyes sparkling dangerously. “That’s all right,” he assured her, kissing her forehead once more. “I buy your clothes, don’t I?”

“You’re bad, you know,” she pointed out as her cheeks blossomed with color.

“I’m not bad, baby girl; I’m _good_ . . .”

“Oh, God,” Bas interjected with a wince. “Can’t you be like normal parents and pretend that you don’t have sex?”

“You’re so puritanical, Bastian,” Isabelle said with a giggle, hurrying over to kiss a clean spot on her grandfather’s cheek. “Hi, Grandpa!”

“Isabelle brought presents,” Gin said with a wide smile.

Cain shook his head. “I know what you’re getting at, baby girl, and no, you’re not getting your presents from me early.”

“I wasn’t even thinking about that,” she countered haughtily. “Aren’t you ashamed for having such a low opinion of me?”

“Nope,” Cain replied, letting go of his mate so that he could reach for a cloth on the worktable. “That’s exactly what you were thinking, and don’t try to deny it. You really suck at lying, you know.”

“Anyway, Dad, I just stopped by to let you know that Gavin called me earlier. Jillian wants to go see Avis again, so he wanted to make sure that there weren’t any problems with it,” Bas cut in.

Though neither Gin nor Cain said anything against the proposed trip, Isabelle could feel the tension rising, and she could understand their feelings. Though both Gin and Cain knew that no one could ever replace them as the only real parents that Jillian had ever known, how painful must it be, to be supportive of their daughter when the unwanted implication was that they had somehow lacked in their ability to raise her? Jillian, of course, had never felt that way, Isabelle knew. It was only natural, she supposed, to want to know where she’d come from; to need to know what sort of people they were, and no matter how perfect her childhood was, Jillian likely felt as though she’d know herself better if she understood the parents she’d lost, even if she’d never have the chance to meet them face to face.

Cain heaved a sigh and let Gin take the cloth from him, standing patiently while his wife wiped the paint smears off his skin. “Yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

Bas nodded slowly, understanding his father’s reluctance but unable to do anything to stop Jillian, either. “All right,” he agreed. “Do you want to call Gavin back, or I can . . .”

“I’ll do it later,” Cain said, leaning to the side and reaching around Gin to snag his dark green pullover off the nearby stool.

“You know, I’ll go make some tea,” Gin suddenly said, dropping the rag onto the worktable and pasting an overly bright smile on her face.

Cain watched as his wife hurried out of the studio before following after her without a word.

Bas let out a deep breath and slouched against the desk that Gin used when plotting out her children’s books.

“It’s hard on Grandma, isn’t it?” Isabelle ventured quietly.

Bas nodded, his gaze stony as he stared toward the wall of windows at nothing in particular. “Yeah, it is. She tries to be understanding, but . . .”

“But it still hurts her, doesn’t it?”

“Something like that. Jilli’s not trying to do that, and Mom does a fair job of hiding it from her, but you know Mom . . .”

Isabelle nodded. “Jillian isn’t just an ‘adopted daughter’ to her.”

Bas sighed and dragged a hand over his face before shifting his gaze to the side to meet Isabelle’s. Seeing the distress on her face, he forced a wan smile and shrugged as though the entire affair were of little real consequence. “Jilli’s not the ‘adopted’ anything to any of us. Even Evan . . . well, even he’s been a little upset about the way things turned out. Sort of caught between them, I suppose. He’s always been a mama’s-boy, and he and Jilli were raised like twins . . . He understands Mom’s upset, but he also understands Jilli’s feelings, too.”

“You know, you have a tendency to sell Evan short,” Isabelle stated rather pointedly. It was true enough. Through the years, Bastian and Evan’s relationship was one that had always baffled her, maybe because she got along so well with her own sisters. It was hard to fathom the underlying hostility that separated Bastian and Evan. It seemed as though Bastian was constantly underestimating Evan, and as a result, Evan was perpetually antagonizing Bastian, yet she also knew well enough that Bastian loved Evan, too, even if he refused to admit as much. After all, he and Cain had gotten up at the crack of dawn just to be the first ones in line at the local record shop to buy Evan’s debut CD . . .

“. . . Maybe,” he agreed though his tone was noncommittal at best.

Isabelle shook her head then shrugged. She couldn’t mend their relationship, could she? No, it was something that they had to want, too . . . “Anyway, why don’t you tell me what you got that gorgeous wife of yours for Christmas?” she teased, offering her cousin a conspiratorial wink.

Bas smiled almost bashfully—she adored that particular grin most of all—and dug his hands into the pockets of his faded Levi jeans. “Truthfully? Nothing yet.”

“Nothing?” Isabelle echoed, her eyebrows disappearing under her bangs as she stared incredulously at her adored cousin. “As in, not a thing?”

“Not yet . . . You know Sydnie . . . She always wants things that are absolutely useless—her words, not mine—and I haven’t figured out what she’d consider ‘useless’ this year. Besides, that idiot cousin of ours had an aquarium installed in the office, you know? Called it an early Christmas present for Sydnie . . .” Bas paused here to roll his eyes and drag a hand over his face in a show of complete exasperation. “She goes in early; it’s nearly impossible to get her to leave . . . The other day, I went to tell her something only to find her stretched out on top of the damn thing, leaning over the side, batting at the fish that dared to swim close to the glass . . . She’s _enthralled_ by those damn fish . . . Must be the cat in her . . .”

Try as she might not to smile at Bastian’s thorough disgust, Isabelle couldn’t help the soft giggle that escaped her, either. “That’s not so bad,” she ventured.

Bas snorted and shot Isabelle a disgruntled scowl. “She killed them all the first day. Dumped the entire canister of fish flakes into the tank. Gunnar replaced them all before she realized it. She said that she thought they looked hungry after she fed them the first time . . .”

“Well, her heart is in the right place,” Isabelle remarked, lips twitching as she tried not to laugh at her exasperated cousin.

“Uh huh . . . do you know? I caught her holding a fish in her hand, giggling as the poor thing flopped around. She thought it was playing with her.”

“Maybe it was?”

Bas snorted again. “It was dying, Bitty— _dying_. Poor things. My kitty’s going to kill every last one of them, and all Gunnar does is replace the ones she inadvertently kills off, and you know what he says?”’

She shook her head and waited, almost afraid to hear what sort of ridiculous reason Gunnar had given.

Bas heaved a sigh. “Gunnar swears that he just wants to make Sydnie happy,” he grumbled.

“Oh . . . that’s so . . . _noble_ . . . of him,” she replied slowly.

“A little _too_ noble, if you ask me,” Bas went on. “Too bad I know damn well that there isn’t even the tiniest bit of ‘noble’ anywhere in that bastard’s black soul.”

She had to laugh at the cryptic tone in Bas’ voice, especially since she wasn’t feeling overly magnanimous toward that particular cousin at the moment. “Maybe he really is just trying to do something nice,” she offered though she sounded far too dubious even to her own ears.

“Maybe,” he allowed, sounding anything but agreeable. “I doubt it, though. Sometimes he just doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone . . .”

Isabelle sighed, too, rubbing her arms as her humor faded; as she turned abruptly to stare out the windows at the softly falling blanket of whiteness. “No, he doesn’t,” she murmured as the sudden and fierce need to see Griffin’s face assailed her. “He never has . . .”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Griffin frowned as he turned the white velvet jeweler’s box over in his hand and finally pulled it open to inspect the delicate bit of gold that he’d purchased.

He hadn’t really taken the time to look it over in the store, and he grimaced as he scowled at it. Pretty enough, he supposed. The length of the chain alternated between openwork links hooked together by clasps in the shape of tiny bumblebees that might not have been nearly as suspect had the single charm attached to one of the links not been a stupidly grinning likeness of the idiot bear perched atop the Christmas tree that Isabelle had managed to talk him into buying.

“Oh, God,” he grumbled, unable to staunch the flow of blood that washed into his cheeks. Grimacing as he snapped the case closed, he fleetingly considered taking the damned thing right back to the store but changed his mind just as fast. Given the first encounter with that place, he’d rather die a thousand miserable deaths than go back, and even if he did manage to talk himself into it, by the time he got there, he’d be sorely pressed not to heave the offending thing through the plate glass window—and run like hell.

In short, there was no way that he could possibly give the stupid thing to her. If she didn’t laugh outright, she’d absolutely think that he was encouraging her to continue with the unwelcome teasing about the foolish bear, and that was just something that he really, really didn’t want.

‘ _Damn it_ ,’ he thought with an inward scowl as he heaved a sigh and slowly shook his head. ‘ _Back to square one_ . . .’

The sound of the front door opening drew his attention, and Griffin glanced around almost wildly since the very last thing he wanted or needed was to be caught with the jeweler’s box in his hand.

“Griffin? I’m back . . .” Isabelle’s voice rang out in the silence.

‘ _Crap . . . crap, crap, crap_ , crap, crap!’

He could hear the soft whisper of her feet as she padded toward the living room. Without stopping to think about it, he dropped the box into the nearest stocking and stepped back just as Isabelle wandered through the doorway.

“It’s getting colder and colder out there,” she said, rubbing her arms through the thick sweater. He could discern the smell of the winter wind; the vague traces of wood smoke and pine trees warmed by her body heat and clinging to her in an entirely familiar sort of way, and she spared a moment to smile at him before hurrying off toward the kitchen. “Did you miss me?” she called back over her shoulder.

He snorted but couldn’t help the tinge of pink that burned just below the surface of his skin. She didn’t see it, thank God. “Of course not,” he grumbled, frowning as his eyes lit on the stocking where he’d hastily hidden the bracelet—her stocking, damn it. He’d have to remember to get it later so he could find a better place to hide it, like in a fifty-foot hole, maybe . . .

Her laughter drifted out of the kitchen, and when she re-emerged, he wasn’t entirely surprised to note that she was carrying two mugs. “You could say that you missed me,” she pointed out as she sashayed toward him and held out a steaming mug of dandelion tea.

“That’d be a lie,” he insisted, taking the mug and sniffing the contents, lest she had decided to drug him.

Isabelle rolled her eyes and giggled softly. “You’re so suspicious,” she remarked as she sank on the sofa and set her mug aside in lieu of the notes he’d left spread out on the coffee table. “What’s all this?”

He shrugged and plopped down beside her, pausing for a moment to take a drink of his tea before answering. “What’s it look like? It’s more of the translation.”

“You got all this done today?” she queried, shuffling through the pages that he’d finished.

“Yes. They weren’t too difficult. He must’ve felt a little lazier than normal.”

“Hmm,” she intoned, her attention focused squarely on the research—something that irritated Griffin more than he cared to admit. “Excellent . . . excellent . . .”

He snorted and hid his scowl behind the steaming mug of tea.

‘ _Oh, for the love of . . . you’re actually_ jealous?’ his youkai blurted.

Griffin nearly choked on the swig of tea he hadn’t managed to swallow. ‘ _Jea—no! Hell, no! Of course not!_ ’

‘ _You are . . . you really are . . . you’re all kinds of irritated because she’s looking over the translations_ . . . your _work, you moron!_ ’

‘ _Hardly!_ ’ he scoffed, sounding much more self-assured in his mind than he probably would have if he had spoken out loud. ‘ _It’s_ rude; _that’s all. She was gone all day, and she’s not home ten minutes before she’s got her nose buried in those papers_.’

‘ _Wo-o-ow . . . you’re a little pathetic, you know_.’

‘. . . _Shut up_.’

“According to this, if we took samples from full youkai and isolated the gene that controls transformations, then we could develop a serum that could, in all likelihood, protect hanyou from the same transformation,” she mused, almost more to herself than to him.

Griffin grunted and set his mug aside, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees and shrugging offhandedly. “You mean like a vaccine.”

She nodded slowly but didn’t look up from the documents she was still reading through. “Yeah . . . the same principle as injecting the body with a bit of the virus in order to stimulate the production of antibodies.”

“Yeah, that never made sense to me,” he mumbled.

“You’re right; it does sound odd when you first hear it, but it actually does make complete sense. If the antibodies are present, then the chance of actual infection is significantly lowered.”

Griffin shook his head and cast Isabelle a sidelong glance. She was gnawing on her bottom lip, and somewhere along the way, she’d slipped on her glasses, too. Her hair caught the warm glow of the fire on the hearth, and it took a moment for him to recall that he really shouldn’t be staring at her. “I suppose,” he allowed. “You’re the doctor; not me.”

“All of this just seems like common sense, really,” she went on, ignoring Griffin’s commentary entirely. “This is something that could have been figured out long ago if we’d only realized which gene triggered the youkai-reaction in hanyou . . .”

There was something entirely childish about the absolute sense of excitement that surrounded her. The soft, triumphant little giggle that escaped her caught him entirely off guard, calling to mind a memory half-forgotten; one that hurt him and somehow managed to comfort him at the same time. A little girl’s laughter—that’s what it brought to mind—and the imaginary scent of cherry blossoms carried on the spring breeze . . .

“I can’t believe you got all this done today,” she said, her voice breaking through the memory, shattering the half-formed image before it could clearly solidify in his mind.

Griffin blinked and shook his head, and he had to clear his throat before he could find his voice to speak. “It’s nothing big,” he maintained with a little shake of his head, ducking his chin as unaccountable heat filled his cheeks at the warmth behind her tone. “It’s just . . .”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Dr. G,” she chastised, dropping the stack of pages and shifting on the sofa, bringing up her knee as she turned to face him. “You really are amazing, you know.”

He swallowed hard at the tender little smile that lent an uncanny brilliance to her gaze, and for a moment—just for the moment—he almost allowed himself to believe her. Too bad he knew that some things were inevitable; too bad he understood everything that she never would, and yet . . .

And yet she was the single most precious thing to him; the single being that dared to remind him of beautiful things—the insular thing that he absolutely had to protect, no matter what the cost. Reaching up, touching the scars on his cheek, he heaved a sigh and shrugged, wincing inwardly at the palpable reminder of a lifetime of sins. “Translating simple words . . . it’s not really that big of a gift.”

“One of these days, I’m going to make you see what I see when I look at you,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Then you’ll understand.”

He grunted noncommittally. “Will I?”

She nodded, her smile widening as she continued to stare at him. “Yes, you will.”

Griffin looked away, frowning at the mess of papers strewn on the coffee table where he’d left them; where she’d dropped them, as he wondered why it was that his chest ached so badly—and why it was that he couldn’t help but wish that she was right, after all . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Bas_** :  
>  _Gunnar and his fucking aquarium_ …


	34. Silent Night

“Well, if it isn’t my prodigal daughter . . .”

Isabelle grimaced then smiled as she drummed her claws on the kitchen counter. “Hello, Mama . . . Merry Christmas.”

“Hmm, merry Christmas, yourself. So tell me, how is everyone?” Bellaniece queried dryly.

“Just fine . . . I drove out to Grandpa and Grandma’s house earlier to drop off presents. How’s Sami? And Lexi? I haven’t heard from her in a while . . .”

“Sami’s doing well . . . a little stressed out since she’s got a few exams coming up, but fine, nonetheless, and Lexi? She and John flew in for the holiday. They’re staying until after New Year’s. I have to admit that I rather hoped you’d be coming home, too . . .”

Grimacing at the not-so-subtle hint, Isabelle sighed. “I know, and I’m sorry. Everything’s a little hectic around here right now . . . is Papa around?”

Bellaniece didn’t answer right away, and when she finally did, Isabelle didn’t miss the hint of censure in her mother’s dulcet tone. “He’s reading the newspaper. Don’t you want to talk to your mama?”

Rolling her eyes, Isabelle slowly shook her head. “Of course I do . . . it’s just that I also need to talk to him.”

“I see . . . but suppose you tell me about this man you’re seeing?”

“You’ve . . . heard . . .?”

“I’m your mama. I hear everything.”

“Who told you?”

Bellaniece sighed. “Really, Isabelle. Do you think your father is stupid? A patient, indeed . . .”

She stopped with her hand poised on the coffee pot handle and laughed. Of course Kichiro would figure her unspoken feelings out easily enough. He _was_ touted as being a genius, wasn’t he? “Well, what do you want to know?” she hedged.

“Oh, everything,” Bellaniece said without preamble. “Is he handsome? Is he a good kisser? Is he good in bed?”

She couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her as she poured a cup of coffee. “Yes, very handsome . . . and I don’t know.”

“You mean you haven’t kissed him?”

Wrinkling her nose as she reached for the sugar bowl, Isabelle heaved a melodramatic sigh. “Unless you consider a quick one to get rid of his hiccups ‘kissing’, then no.”

“Oh, Isabelle . . .” Bellaniece chided, clicking her tongue melodramatically. “I brought you up better than that . . .”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” she giggled. “We’re just taking things slowly.”

“I suppose there could be something to that,” Bellaniece agreed rather dubiously. “Is he your mate?”

Pausing long enough to peek around the doorframe to ascertain Griffin’s whereabouts, Isabelle couldn’t help but smile. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen—still downstairs, she figured. “Yes,” she said as a silly little grin surfaced. “Yes, he is.”

“Oh? That’s wonderful! But don’t you think that you ought to be testing out the kissing then?”

“He’s shy, Mama. Anyway, did Papa get you anything interesting for Christmas?”

“You know your Papa. He won’t even give me a hint, no matter how hard I try to weasel a clue out of him,” Bellaniece complained.

“I’m sure you’ll love whatever he gets you.”

“Hmm,” she sighed then laughed. “Here’s your father. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Mama, and merry Christmas.”

“My Baby-Belle,” Kichiro’s voice greeted warmly.

Her grin widened. “Merry Christmas, Papa.”

She could hear the rustle of the newspaper as her father set it aside. “Did you get our present?”

“The money?” she questioned. “Yes, I did. Thank you.”

“Yeah, your mother was complaining that it wasn’t personal enough, but I didn’t figure you wanted another baby doll or anything . . .”

“It’s fine. I bought few new outfits with it.”

“Good. So what’s the real reason you called?”

“I was homesick?” she deadpanned.

Kichiro grunted. “Yeah, I’m not buying.”

She sighed. “Well, to be completely honest, it’s about the research . . .”

“What about it?”

Setting the plastic jug of nondairy creamer in the refrigerator, Isabelle brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and cleared her throat. “I’m not sure . . . something’s just bugging me, I guess.”

“Mm, what do you mean?”

“The theories are sound,” she replied, taking a sip of coffee. “But I wonder . . .”

“About . . .?”

Picking up the mug, she shuffled out of the kitchen and into the living room where the translation notes lay scattered on the coffee table where Griffin had left them. “The differences in youkai . . . I mean, at first glance, everything makes logical sense, but the more I think about it, I have to wonder . . . if it’s as simple as injecting a bit of a youkai’s DNA into a hanyou . . .”

“You’re wondering if that will have adverse effects on the hanyou’s system,” he concluded.

“Something like that.”

Kichiro was silent as he contemplated Isabelle’s dilemma. “I don’t really know without looking over the research, myself . . . exactly what part of a youkai’s DNA does it suggest using?”

“The transformation gene, but it goes on to mention that it is closely connected to the inherent ability gene, too, which is what really presents a problem. In best case, it might mutate into enhanced abilities for the recipient, but if it is a conflicting sample . . .”

“You mean for elemental youkai?”

“Yes.”

“That might be true, and if it’s the case, then special care would have to be taken to make sure that it didn’t happen, but youkai who manifest inherent abilities are rare and normally confined to those who have stronger blood ties to the most powerful youkai—take Sesshoumaru, for example. His energy whip might be considered a blood trait—there aren’t many others who possess the ability to produce that. Toga doesn’t even have that, though it seems to be something that isn’t developed until later in life. He’s only seventy-one now, and he’s never really had to fight despite his training, so it’s difficult to say.”

“And grandpa’s incineration.”

“Right . . . not exactly something you’d want just anyone to be able to duplicate.”

She grimaced and nodded in silent agreement. Though she’d never actually seen the incineration, herself, she’d heard about it once; overheard Bastian talking to Ben. Apparently it was an inherent ability that had also belonged to Cain’s father, and while it was something that he’d only used once in his lifetime, Isabelle knew that it was an ability that Cain hadn’t ever really wanted.

“Don’t give up,” Kichiro offered in encouragement. “Maybe there’s more in the notes; a way to separate out the part you need for the serum from the rest of it.”

“I hope so,” she agreed. “If they were about ready to do a clinical trial, then I assume they were well aware of the potential risks.”

“Yes, well, make sure that you check into it thoroughly before writing up your proposal. Don’t worry, though. I have every faith that you’ll do just fine.”

“Thanks, Papa.”

“Any time, baby.”

“Merry Christmas. Give Mama my love, too.”

“I absolutely will.”

She clicked the cell phone off and sighed, dropping it onto the coffee table atop the notes. Hopefully her father was right, and she really was just worrying over nothing. After all, the Carradine brothers seemed to have been quite thorough in their research thus far. If they did overlook it, it was probably because of the lack of knowledge of the inherent abilities of some youkai. She supposed that the only reason it had occurred to her was because of those in her family who possessed the rare abilities, in the first place.

Blinking suddenly as the clock on the fireplace mantle struck midnight, Isabelle slowly smiled. ‘ _Christmas Eve_ ,’ she thought to herself as she smothered a yawn with the back of her hand and stumbled to her feet. She shuffled over to the basement door as she finished off her coffee and lifted her fist to knock, but stopped before she did. “Merry Christmas Eve,” she murmured, kissing her fingertips and pressing them against the closed door.

Then she took her cup to the kitchen before shutting the lights off and heading to bed.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Griffin turned the small hunk of wood over his hands and carefully drew the claw of his right index finger along the faint outline he’d marked earlier. The crackle of the fire added an ambient sort of sound to the otherwise silent basement, and he glanced up long enough to stare at the dog curled up on the ratty old pillow near the hearth before turning his attention back to the simplistic work once more.

Normally he did some of his best thinking while he worked on the silly little carvings, didn’t he? Too bad it wasn’t working for him tonight, which just figured, really. He’d retreated to the basement shortly after supper, prepared to try to figure out something else that he might be able to get for Isabelle that wouldn’t be stupid and, most importantly, wouldn’t make him look absolutely ridiculous in the long run.

But there wasn’t anything, was there? As much as he hated to admit it, there wasn’t a damn thing he could give her that she didn’t already have or didn’t have the means to get for herself. No, it didn’t matter what he considered, the end result was always the same. She either had it or could get it . . . or maybe she just didn’t want it.

‘ _So swallow your pride and take the bracelet back. Exchange it for a necklace or something—just listen to the woman if she tells you it’s from the Walt Disney collection_.’

‘ _I don’t remember asking for your advice_ ,’ Griffin thought with a mental snort.

‘ _Yeah? Too bad you’re not having any luck on your own. Beggars can’t be choosers, can they?_ ’

Wincing as the block of wood slipped out of his hand and thumped on the threadbare rug on the floor, Griffin spared a moment to flex his fingers before leaning over to retrieve the piece. ‘ _I’m not going back in that store_ ,’ he insisted, cheeks reddening at the very idea. ‘ _Hell can freeze over for all I care; I’m just not doing it._ ’

It was all her fault, anyway, wasn’t it? If she hadn’t been singing Christmas carols under her breath all night, Griffin wouldn’t have retreated to the basement. As it was, he’d felt just a little guiltier with every song she sang, and he hated the very real prospect of not giving her a thing come Christmas morning when she’d gone through the effort of buying presents for him.

It just didn’t matter, did it? There really wasn’t a damn thing he could buy for her that didn’t seem trite and stupid when he stopped to consider it. Clothes? Hell, she had more than enough of those, and even if she didn’t, what did he know about fashion? Nothing, that was what. A bauble or trinket seemed ridiculous. What would she do with something like that? Set it on a shelf and forget about it, he figured, and God only knew that he’d tried—and failed—in the jewelry department. He supposed she’d like candy well enough, but given that he complained about her deplorable diet already, he didn’t figure that was a good idea, after all, and since he’d seen firsthand the almost perverse number of presents she’d toted into the house just after dinner, he figured that anything he’d consider getting for her was probably wrapped in one of those boxes stowed under the tree.

‘ _What do you expect?_ ’ his youkai chided with a weary sigh. ‘ _If it weren’t bad enough that her father’s a world-famous surgeon and youkai researcher, her great-uncle has damn near a mountain of money at his disposal, too. Add to that the Zelig fortune, and I doubt there’s a thing on earth you could ever buy her that could actually come close to comparing with that._ ’

‘ _Hmm, well, that was positive, thanks_ ,’ he grumbled, stifling a sigh as the hunk of wood slipped out of his fingers once more. He retrieved it and set it on the table beside the old sofa and pushed himself to his feet. He might as well get a mug of tea or something since his hands weren’t going to cooperate, at least for the moment. His very bones ached, or so it seemed. There was a snowstorm coming. He could always tell a day or so before something like that because of the throbbing pain that just never quite went away . . .

Charlie braced his front paws against the floor and leaned back to stretch, his mouth stretching wide open as his lolling tongue unfurled and with a decided grunt, he padded after Griffin, his claws clicking softly against the wood floor. “Oh, so you finally decided to wake up?” Griffin mumbled, shaking his head as the dog half-groaned, half-grunted in response.

He wasn’t surprised, either, when the animal trotted over and sat beside his empty food bowl. Charlie’s tail scraped over the floor in a rhythmic cadence as he tried his best to look pathetic enough to convince Griffin to feed him. Too bad it he was immune to it. “Forget it, dog. You’re fat enough, as it is.”

Griffin almost stumbled over the idiot cat that materialized out of seemingly nowhere right under his feet, rubbing against his shins and rattling out a rusty sounding purr as he scooted her aside and reached for a clean mug. Between Isabelle and her ridiculous traveling zoo, he figured it was just a matter of time before she brought home something else that she found out there, probably something hideous like a skunk . . . “Move it, Butt-Ugly, before I step on you,” he grumbled. The cat blinked and stared at him as her purring ratcheted up a notch.

Heaving a disgusted sigh, he shook his head and carefully sidestepped the ignorant cat who was rubbing against his leg once more to set the mug on the counter. Maybe the little beast would leave him alone if he fed her . . .

With that in mind, he carefully measured half a cup of cat food out of the bag under the sink and dumped it into the pink earthenware bowl on the floor. Charlie danced around, his body quaking at the very idea of being fed, and with another sigh, Griffin dipped into the dog food, too, since he didn’t put it past Charlie to steal the cat’s food if given a chance.

Satisfied at last that they’d leave him alone, he washed his hands methodically before filling his mug and trailing a spoonful of honey into it.

Heading back toward the basement door, Griffin stopped short and frowned. He could have sworn he’d heard a sound coming from the darkened hallway—Isabelle’s bedroom. Setting the mug on the dining table, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and veered to the left, quickening his step as he strode down the hallway and shouldered open Isabelle’s door.

Everything seemed fine. The sound of her breathing lent him a feeling of reassurance. Hidden in the shadows of the murky night, she lay curled on her side in the middle of the bed, her hair pooled around her in the softest waves.

‘ _Are you sure you heard something?_ ’ his youkai asked carefully.

‘ _Of course I did_ ,’ Griffin maintained with a shake of his head.

‘ _You know, you don’t really have to make up reasons for checking up on her . . . I’m on your side, remember?_ ’

‘ _I’m not checking up on her. She’s trouble. Why shouldn’t she be trouble while she’s sleeping, too?_ ’

‘ _If you say so_.’

‘ _I do_.’

Blinking suddenly, Griffin closed his eyes for a moment as he hunkered down beside the bed—he hadn’t realized he’d come into the room. Somehow simply being near her was enough, wasn’t it? Enough to lend him a sense of calm that he couldn’t quite credit; a sense of well-being that he hadn’t known in centuries . . . enough to bolster his desire to move forward when everything seemed to be turning inside out . . .

Reaching out with a reluctant hand, he brushed an errant lock of hair out of Isabelle’s face and almost smiled when she shifted closer to his touch. A contented sigh, the slight upturn of her lips . . . she seemed to sense his presence, and it occurred to him that maybe—just maybe—those things that he felt whenever he was close to her . . . maybe she felt them, too. Her skin was smooth, impossibly soft—not like those stupid clichés that compared a woman’s skin to silk or satin, no . . . Those things were cool to the touch, weren’t they? Almost cold and definitely not like the Isabelle he knew. No, her skin brought to mind the finest cotton: warm, inviting, gentle . . . everything she was.

She was beautiful, and it wasn’t the kind of superficial beauty that dissolved the moment she opened her mouth. No, it was an incandescence that shone through from the inside; beauty that was only embellished by the vibrance of her smile; by the sweetness of her laughter; by the sparkle in her eyes. It was that quality that made her dangerous; that quality that drew him closer when he knew deep down that he really ought to be fighting harder to keep his distance. Somehow she’d managed to insinuate herself into his life, becoming as necessary to him as the air he breathed. She was precious; so precious, and the sudden surge of nearly painful emotion that shot through him made him wince.

That was the crux of his problem, wasn’t it? That was the real reason that nothing at all seemed to be good enough to give her. There wasn’t a thing he could give her that would come close to showing her just how much she meant to him, even if he couldn’t bring himself to admit as much to her, and it didn’t help, knowing damn well that she’d be happy with anything at all. He knew as surely as he knew that the sun would rise in a few paltry hours that she’d still give him that brilliant smile of hers and tell him that she loved ‘it’, no matter what ‘it’ happened to be. She would tell him that it was special because he gave it to her, and he’d roll his eyes but be pleased somewhere deep down that she had looked genuinely happy when she’d said those words. Unfortunately, the truth of it was that he didn’t _want_ her to tell him those words. He didn’t want her to have to say them, at all. He wanted to be able to tell from the look on her face and the sparkle in her eyes that he’d pleased her . . .

She sighed softly and snuggled down into the warmth and safety of the thick comforter and downy pillow, and he swallowed hard. The scent of her seemed to beckon him closer, drew him in even as he protested in the back of his mind. “Beautiful,” he mumbled, unsure if he’d said it out loud or if it was just the insular thought that kept running through his head. “What are you doing here with a . . . a . . . with _me?_ ”

As if she’d heard his words, she smiled just slightly, pressing her cheek against the palm of his hand as though she needed his touch. The unconscious gesture set off a spiral of conflicting emotion in him: a tightening in his throat as a deep ache exploded in his chest; an unsettling stinging behind his eyelids as he blinked to dispel the foreign sensation as a warmth that he couldn’t credit, a surge of something he didn’t understand took root in his mind, only to slowly blossom. Was it hope? Surprise? Something deeper? The feeling that if he closed his eyes and never woke again, he wouldn’t mind as long as Isabelle was there beside him . . . but he didn’t know how to label the emotion. He wasn’t sure exactly what to call it or how to retain a grip on it . . .

‘ _Something . . . rare . . . something special_ ,’ he mused as he almost clumsily ran his knuckles over the rise and hollow of her cheek. ‘ _Something . . . something_ . . .’

Wincing as the realization that he wasn’t any closer to figuring out just what to give Isabelle for Christmas came abruptly back into focus, Griffin reluctantly let his hand fall away as he got to his feet and pulled the comforter up under her chin more securely. ‘ _Rare, huh?_ ’ he sighed as he shuffled toward the door.

Too bad he had less than a day to figure out what that could possibly be.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
> … _Bah, humbug_ …


	35. Home for the Holidays

Griffin trudged up the stairs, scowling at the sadly wrapped package in his hand as he tried to tell himself that he wasn’t being colossally stupid after all.

He’d spent the better portion of the day and most of the night laboring over the smallest details on the stupid sculpture—ridiculous since he really believed that she’d just laugh at him in the end. Still, it was the only thing he had been able to come up with, and to that end, he’d given it his best effort. Isabelle hadn’t seemed to notice his absence, absorbed as she’d been in the translation notes. The few times he’d ventured upstairs, he’d found her scribbling notes as she read and re-read the pages.

The weak and watery sunlight that was just starting to filter through the windows should have brought a smile to his face, he supposed. Holidays were supposed to be fun, weren’t they? So why was it that he couldn’t quite shake the feeling of impending doom?

Heaving a sigh, he shook his head and glowered at the pathetic looking present in his hands. It looked . . . sad, didn’t it? He’d tried, though—tried for over an hour to get the damn thing to look decent, and maybe it did look alright, given that it was the first time he’d tried to wrap a gift. Catching sight of the perfectly wrapped presents she’d painstakingly arranged under the tree only made the one he was holding look that much more ridiculous.

‘ _What the hell am I doing?_ ’ he fumed, grimacing as his grip tightened. The wooden box inside the plain brown paper creaked and groaned, and with a heavy sigh, he forced himself to let up on it before it splintered into bits.

“Merry Christmas, teddy-bear,” Isabelle greeted as she emerged from the hallway, wrapped in a thick fleece robe.

Griffin blushed at her choice of words and turned slightly to hide the sad-looking package against his chest. “Jezebel,” he grumbled without looking at her.

“Want some tea?” she asked. She either hadn’t noticed his peculiar stance or she simply figured it best not to comment on it. Either way, he grunted in agreement and breathed a sigh of relief when she shuffled off toward the kitchen.

He’d spent the better part of the night telling himself that maybe she’d like it, convincing himself that it wasn’t nearly as asinine as it seemed. Somehow, though, he felt even more ridiculous than he had while he was wrapping the dumb thing.

Hunkering down before the tree with the softly glowing lights, he couldn’t help but grimace as he tried to figure out where to stick the gift. It looked sorely out of place amongst the ribbons and bows, the brightly colored wrapping paper and the shine of foil. The plain brown paper of the present in his hands was tied with a simple bit of twine since it was all he could find in the dusty old basement. His idiot youkai had assured him the twine added a ‘rustic flair’ to it, and while he’d bought into that at the time, he couldn’t help but think that maybe he was a bigger fool than he’d ever been before . . .

“I stuck a candy cane in your tea,” Isabelle called as she shuffled through the dining room.

Smothering a gasp of surprise—he’d almost forgotten that she was only making tea—he tossed the modest gift under the tree, but he tossed it a bit too hard. Barely grazing the lowest branches and clearing the modest stash of presents, it skittered across the bare floor and into the shadows of the floor-length curtains.

Her soft laughter rattled through him, and she held a mug of tea over his shoulder. “I _knew_ it,” she gloated. He didn’t have to look at her to know that she was still grinning. “So you want your presents, Dr. G?”

He snorted loudly, refusing to look at her as he pushed himself to his feet and took the mug before turning away and taking his time while gulping down the drink—a gesture that he should have realized wasn’t a good idea since the water was still way too hot for comfort. Gritting his teeth, he made a face at the added sweetness of the candy cane but didn’t comment since he was fairly certain that he’d managed to blister his vocal cords with the boiling hot tea.

“Here,” she said, taking the empty mug from him and setting it on the coffee table. She’d retrieved a long, flat box from beneath the tree—a garment box, he supposed—and he frowned at it when she shoved it into his hands. “Merry Christmas.”

“Th-thank you,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His discomfort was slowly waning though he was of two minds about opening the gift. As much as he hated to admit it, he really was curious, but the same curiosity was tempered by the sneaking suspicion that whatever was in the box just couldn’t really be good . . .

But seeing no way around it, he heaved a sigh and lumbered over to the sofa, pausing momentarily to watch as Isabelle—now sitting on the floor in front of the tree with her feet neatly hidden under the copious fabric of her robe—tried to coax Charlie into opening a very-obviously bone-shaped gift.

She was beautiful, wasn’t she? Sitting there on the floor with her hair still tousled from bed and a gentle smile on her face, the absolute joy of Christmas shining through her eyes . . . Was that how she’d looked as a child? Had she run into her parents’ bedroom on Christmas morning, demanding that they get up to watch as she opened her gifts with her eyes glowing with anticipation, with her cheeks rosy and flushed with excitement? It was the life she was meant to have, wasn’t it? Happiness, laughter, the warmth of being secure in the knowledge that she was loved . . . that was what he wished for her . . .

“Well, open it!” she prodded, planting her hands on the floor and swiveling to face him.

He heaved a sigh but opened the box and blinking at the deep crimson cotton dress shirt nestled in the folds of pristine white tissue paper. Though it wasn’t a color he would have picked for himself, he had to admit that it wasn’t bad. Not nearly as flashy as he had feared, the fabric felt soft to the touch, and he slowly lifted it out of the box to give it a more critical once-over.

“I already pre-washed it to make sure it wasn’t going to shrink up,” she explained with a satisfied little grin quirking the corners of her lips. “I’m sorry if my ironing job wasn’t quite up to snuff.”

He didn’t answer right away and couldn’t do much more than nod since he really couldn’t find fault with the garment. He caught her little grin out of the corner of his eye and sighed. “Thank you,” he mumbled, carefully laying the shirt over the back of the sofa.

She giggled and thumped over to him on her knees and bearing another gift that she brandished with a flourish before sticking it right under his nose.

He jerked back to avoid getting a mouthful of ribbon and narrowed his gaze on the suspect package, turning it from side to side, inspecting it before he made a move to unwrap it.

“It’s not a bomb, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she remarked somewhat dryly, returning to her place by the tree and batting a gray fur covered fake mouse in the general vicinity of the kitten, who hopped straight up in the air only to pounce on the toy before rolling away with the unsuspecting mouse in a death hold.

“Sure, it isn’t,” he shot back, slipping his claw under the ribbon and cleanly slicing through it.

Her response was easy laughter. “You’re such a grump,” she chided though she didn’t sound irritated in the least.

He snorted and tore away the paper, scowling at the box in his hand. “A cell phone?” he questioned. “And just why do I need one of these things?”

Her eyebrows disappeared under her bangs as she shook her head. “You need one,” she assured him. “I mean, what if I need to get a hold of you when you’re out?”

“What for?”

She giggled, leaning to the side to bring her knees up. “To tell you how hot I think you are?”

Snapping his mouth closed, he scowled at the hideous rush of blood just under his skin at her offhanded and completely bawdy commentary. “Jezebel,” he hissed, setting the cell phone on the table with a heavy thump and rubbing the palms of his hands on his slacks.

She set a small stack of presents on the table beside the phone and winked at him. “You’re so cute when you blush,” she commented.

“You know, you’re kind of a pain,” Griffin grumbled.

“Am I?” Isabelle challenged.

“Yes you are,” he said.

She laughed; he figured she would. Still, he was relieved to know that her gifts weren’t really as bad as he had feared. She stood up, grabbing his cup, and hurried off to the kitchen to get him a refill, pausing long enough to cast him a sly smile.

He watched her go and grimaced inwardly. He didn’t trust that look; not in the least, and especially not coming from her . . .

The next couple of presents weren’t bad: a book on ancient Aztec texts and a Christmas-themed glass jar full of mixed nuts. The jar had holly and candy canes painted all over it and a dark green ribbon tied around the neck—a bit garish, really, but given the season, he supposed that it wasn’t too bad. Better still, the nuts were honey roasted, so that made up for the rather gaudy packaging.

Popping the plastic seal around the lid, Griffin sat back and shook a handful of nuts into his palm as Isabelle re-emerged from the kitchen, carefully balancing his tea, her coffee, and a plate stacked with the pecan-molasses cookies she’d baked the night before. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that cookies really didn’t constitute a decent breakfast, but remembering that he was stuffing the honey-roasted nuts into his mouth at the moment, he thought better of complaining out loud.

She rolled her eyes as she set his mug on the table. “I should have known,” she said lightly. “Save some room for the turkey, okay?”

“A few nuts aren’t going to fill me up,” he intoned with a grunt.

“You’ll eat that whole jar,” she predicted, her voice echoing in her cup as she blinked over the rim. Both hands wrapped around the cup and completely ignoring the handle, she reminded him of a child drinking a glass of milk. Charlie whined, and she laughed, setting the cup aside in lieu of paying attention to the animal, who was sitting in front of the fireplace, tail wagging happily as he stared at the lumpy stocking hanging from the mantle. “Aww, does my Froofie want his sockie?” Isabelle asked, using a high-pitched, entirely silly tone with the poor dog.

“It’s Charlie, and of course he does,” Griffin muttered, leaning forward to reach for a cookie. “You jammed about a thousand dog treats in there, didn’t you?”

Isabelle fluttered her fingers over her shoulder in blatant dismissal and pulled down both the dog as well as the cat’s stockings. Charlie took it and trotted across the floor, only to lie down, holding the stocking between his paws and burying his nose in the open end. The idiot cat just stared at the one that Isabelle set on the floor in front of her.

“Here,” she said, carefully unhooking the stocking she’d written his name on.

He eyed it for a moment before hesitantly reaching for it. He hadn’t noticed when she’d put anything in his stocking. It had been empty the night before, hadn’t it?

Wrinkling his nose as an unmistakable sense of guilt rippled through him, he sighed inwardly. “Isabelle,” he began only to stop short when he noticed that she was eyeing her own stocking rather dubiously. She hadn’t made a move toward it yet, and his eyes flared wide when he realized that he’d forgotten to grab the God-forsaken bracelet out of there. When she’d arrived home a couple days ago, he’d hurriedly stuffed it in there since he couldn’t think of anywhere else to hide, and he’d had every intention of going back later to retrieve it until he figured out what to do with it. Unfortunately, he’d gotten sidetracked by her interest in the translation notes, and then he’d spent the day yesterday preoccupied with what he could get her that wouldn’t be completely humiliating . . .

‘ _Damn_ . . .’ Clearing his throat to draw her attention, he shot to his feet and started toward her in hopes of intercepting her before she found the stupid bracelet. “Uh, Isabelle—”

It was too late.

Grimacing as she shoved her arm into the stocking only to come away with the damned jeweler’s box, he couldn’t help the hot wash of color that flooded his cheeks.

“What’s this?” she murmured, flipping up the lid and shaking her head at the shining bracelet nestled inside.

“Wh—oh—uh . . . th-that?” he stammered, feeling more and more foolish with every passing second. “It’s, um . . . c-c-cat,” he blurted as his face darkened from pink to crimson, bypassing magenta completely. “Collar for the cat.”

“Really,” she said, amusement lighting her gaze as she slipped the bracelet out of the box and set the box on the mantle. “That’s a shame . . . it’s lovely, you know,” she teased.

He grunted and crossed his arms over his chest, unable to meet her gaze; unable to do much more than stand there like an idiot and wait miserably for the other shoe to drop, so to speak.

“Would you help me?” she ventured, extending the bracelet to him in a very quiet, almost shy, decidedly un-Isabelle-esque tone of voice.

‘ _She . . . isn’t going to tease me . . .?_ ’ he wondered as he forced himself to reach for the delicate bit of jewelry. Grimacing as he tried to grasp the clasps—God, they were tiny in his huge and clumsy fingers. He had a difficult enough time trying to hold onto something like a pen or pencil. The bracelet was damn near impossible, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to admit that he couldn’t do it, either; couldn’t give voice to the frustration he felt surging through him as he gritted his teeth and tried to dislodge the eyelet.

She cleared her throat, her discomfort rising in the air. She must have just realized that he was having distinct trouble with the bracelet, but she didn’t comment.

Somehow, he finally managed to flip open the clasp, and after a couple of tries, he pushed on the miniscule nub that popped free. Isabelle seemed to relax in an instant as he carefully draped the bracelet over her narrow wrist and fumbled with the clasp once more. When he let his hands drop away, flexing his fingers from the onset of stiffness that had set in, she rewarded him with one of the brightest smiles he’d ever seen.

He blinked and stood, transfixed, unable to do much more than stare. With a soft giggle, she pushed herself up on her toes, slipping a hand around his neck to pull him down as the warmth of her lips brushed over his cheek; as the heat of a rioting flush suffused his skin.

“Thank you,” she murmured, letting go and stepping away though the smile hadn’t faltered at all. “I’ll never take it off; I promise.”

“Don’t get carried away, Jezebel,” he grumbled, dragging his gaze away and shuffling toward the sofa. “It’s just a stupid bracelet.”

“Then maybe I’m just a stupid girl,” she remarked, her tone light, teasing.

He grunted in response, snatching up his tea mug for want of something better to do.

“Anyway,” she said briskly, skittering across the floor and plopping down beside him only to lean on his shoulder in an entirely playful sort of way, “you need to look in your stocking . . . Do you suppose you got coal this year, Dr. G?”

“You should have,” he stated, wiping his chin since he had been mid-quaff when she’d so unceremoniously descended on him.

She just laughed—he’d figured that she would. Ignoring the stocking that she picked up and held out to him, he finished off the tea and sighed. “I don’t really believe in Santa Claus, you know.”

“Shame on you,” she chided. “You’re never too old to believe in that.”

“Fairytales and rainbows,” he muttered, scowling at the idiot cat who was busy accosting the dog, who, for the most part, was trying his best to ignore the irritating feline as he gnawed on the huge bone he’d been given. “Did you chase those when you were a cub?”

“Hmm,” she drawled, considering his question. “The fairytales or rainbows?”

“Either.”

“I suppose . . .”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

She laughed again, but whether it was because he hadn’t really sounded as gruff as normal or because he’d somehow managed to amuse her, he wasn’t sure. Either way, it was a soothing sound; a nice sound, and he couldn’t quite help the small smile that quirked on his own lips . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

The laughter died in Isabelle’s throat, and she knew that the grin on her face was slowly fading, too, but she couldn’t quite help herself, either, not when faced with the one thing she’d never seen Griffin do before. The smile on his face was gentle, sweet—such a far cry from the gruff man that she’d come to know and adore. She swallowed hard, unable to breathe, unable to do much more than stare as the depths of his eyes took on a sort of glow: a spark that she hadn’t realized wasn’t there before. The emotion was fleeting—his smile was gone almost as quickly as it had come, and yet she couldn’t shake the image of it from her mind, either.

He’d gone from handsome to devastating in the space of a moment, in the blink of an eye. If she’d been standing, her knees probably would have given out on her. Staring back at him, willing him to understand the things she couldn’t put into words . . . and the curious knowledge that somewhere deep down, he did understand, after all . . .

“So,” he said, letting his gaze fall away as a hint of redness entered his cheeks once more, “does that thing have coal in it?”

“Coal?” she echoed, all sense of comprehension gone as she stubbornly tried to cling to the moment.

“Yes, Jezebel; coal.”

“Oh, right,” she blurted, feeling a hot flush filter into her skin. Heaving a sigh, she cleared her throat and shoved her hand into the stocking. “Nope . . . here,” she said, holding out a festively wrapped present.

He shifted his eyes to the side and looked at the present for several seconds before hesitantly taking it from her. She sat back, flicking her wrist to adjust the bracelet, gently rubbing her fingertip over the smooth gold while she bit her lip and tried not to smile at the tiny little Winnie the Pooh dangling from the links.

“What . . . is this . . .?” Griffin asked, breaking her out of her reverie.

She couldn’t help but smile at the look of utter disgust on his face as he stared at the sunglasses inside the plastic case. “What do you think they are, silly old bear?” she countered sweetly.

He snorted. Loudly. “I’m not wearing those,” he stated, setting the case on the coffee table with a second loud snort.

She rolled her eyes and leaned forward to nab the sunglasses. “You should,” she informed him, slowly choosing her words.

“Why?”

“Because,” she said with a simplistic shrug, “your eyes bother you when you’re in direct sunlight, and don’t try to tell me that they don’t. They’ll help.”

“Th-they’re not prescription,” he insisted, casting about for reasons, she supposed.

“Actually, they are. I borrowed your extra glasses.”

That earned her a narrow-eyed stare as he slowly shook his head. “I’m still not wearing those.”

“Well, you have them,” she said, reining in the urge to smile.   “You know, in case you need them.”

He grunted in response to that and grabbed a cookie, shoving the entire thing into his mouth. Isabelle rolled her eyes and reached for one only to have her hand slapped away. “Hey!” she protested as he pushed her fingers aside and grabbed another cookie.

“Forget it, fat ass. The last thing you need is cookies.”

“Saving me from myself?” she asked, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

“. . . Yes,” he stated, shoving that cookie into his mouth in one bite, too.

She laughed. She couldn’t help it. There was just something about Christmas that was magical, wasn’t there?

‘ _Or maybe_ . . .’

Her smile widened as she watched Griffin get to his feet and lumber off toward the kitchen with his tea mug and her coffee cup in his hands.

Or maybe it was because of the man she was spending her holiday with . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
>  _… Grumpy old bear …?_


	36. The Forgotten Gift

Griffin propped his cheek on his hand, shaking his head enough to let his hair fall over the other side of his face and thus effectively blocking out the entirely too-distracting image of Isabelle as she lounged on the sofa in what had to be one of the most God-forsakenly heinous things he’d ever clapped eyes on.

‘ _Oh, please! You know you like it_ ,’ his youkai said.

‘ _W—I—N—Shut up!_ ’ Griffin snarled, the pen in his hand groaning as his grip tightened precariously.

‘ _She’s completely beyond reason_ ,’ he fumed, his cheeks burning at the mere thought of exactly what the woman was wearing.

‘ _So, she bought you a bright red shirt_ ,’ his youkai went on a little too casually.

Griffin snorted. It wasn’t the bright red shirt that was the problem. No, it was the hideous orangey-yellow word ‘Pooh’ across the front of it that was, and worse, she’d actually given it to him as one of his presents.

‘ _I despise Christmas_.’

‘ _Oh, you don’t, and it isn’t that bad. So she got you one silly gift. The rest of them were fairly nice, even if you don’t want to admit as much_.’

He snorted again, tapping the tip of the ink pen on the blank page before him. ‘ _Did you see the stupid cell phone number?_ ’

‘ _It could be entirely coincidental that the last four digits of the number spell Pooh_. . .’

‘ _Right . . . So, you didn’t notice that_ _she was way too happy to point out_.’

‘ _Do you really think she’s that bad?_ ’

‘ _Yes . . . Yes, I do_.’

‘ _Well, maybe, but in an entirely playful sort of way_.’

‘ _Bad is bad is bad is bad_.’

‘ _Save it for the hangman, Griffin. I’m not buying_.’

‘ _Good because I’m not selling_.’

‘ _Have you ever considered the idea that you take yourself way too seriously?_ ’

‘ _Someone has to because you never, ever do_.’

His damned youkai laughed.

“So how about it, Griffin?” Isabelle said as she leaned against his desk.

He swatted at her hip in a vain effort to move her. “How about what?” he countered.

She laughed. “You’re not really going to say that you haven’t been listening to me, are you?” she demanded, and he didn’t have to look to know that she had one of her eyebrows arched and very likely had an amused smile on her face, too.

“. . . What was that?” he intoned rather blandly.

Heaving a melodramatic sigh, she pushed herself away from the desk and wandered aimlessly around the living room. “I asked if you wanted to take the Christmas tree down.”

That got his attention fast enough. Glancing at her over his shoulder, he tried to decide whether or not he thought she was being serious. She appeared to be . . . “After all that fuss about putting the damn thing up, you’re ready to take it down already?”

She shrugged offhandedly and paused in her pacing long enough to smile at him. “Well, I _did_ displace your recliner for the duration,” she admitted.

“Did you?” he parried almost sarcastically since she hadn’t bothered to apologize for that in the beginning.

She shot him a cheesy grin. “And you were a very good sport about it all, so I figured that the least I could do is offer to take the tree down. Besides, it’s dropping needles like crazy, if you hadn’t noticed.”

He grunted.   Of course he’d noticed that. He’d noticed that the morning after he’d hauled the damn thing into his living room. For a man who tended to be meticulous to a fault, it was almost enough to drive him mad. Isabelle wasn’t a slob by any means, but she wasn’t nearly as anal about housekeeping as he had a tendency to be.

“So you want me to carry it outside and . . . do what with it?” he asked, unsure if he really wanted to hear her answer or not.

“Put it out and the tree-recyclers will be around to pick it up, but let me take the decorations off, first . . .” trailing off as she turned away from him, she tapped the claw of her index finger against her lips as she considered . . . something . . . “Now where did I put those boxes . . .?”

“Boxes?” he echoed, shaking his head and dropping the pen, giving up on the idea of working, at least for the moment since he was pretty sure that the woman just couldn’t be trusted. “What boxes?”

“The boxes that the ornaments came in,” she said as though he should have known exactly what she was talking about.

He didn’t reply to that. He wasn’t entirely sure she’d have heard him, anyway. Even so, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room since he’d packed the boxes away in a large wooden box in the hall closet. She’d been so preoccupied in surveying her handiwork that she hadn’t noticed it before.

She blinked in surprise when he came back into the room with the storage box. With a smile and a shake of her head, she waited as he set the crate on the coffee table and pushed back the lid. “Do you suppose we could leave the things in the front yard until New Year’s?” she asked, taking the ornament box he held out to her.

“Do we have to?”

She laughed. “I suppose we don’t, but it always depresses me when Christmas is put away so quickly after the holiday.”

He stopped with a box in his hands and scowled at her. With her back facing him as she carefully studied the tree for the ornaments that went in that specific box, she didn’t seem upset about the entire affair, but he couldn’t shake the twinge of guilt that the only reason she was willing to remove the tree was ultimately because of him. “You don’t have to take that down tonight,” he offered at length.

“Oh, it’s okay,” she assured him as she carefully stowed the ornaments in the plastic tray. “I don’t mind.”

Did she have to sound like she really didn’t mind? Why didn’t she pout or cajole to get her way? He’d seen Maria do that often enough—not blatantly but there, nonetheless. Isabelle, with her quiet sense of tranquility . . . she really wasn’t like any other woman, was she?

She worked without comment for a while, humming under her breath while Griffin packed the crate up once more, taking care not to break any of the delicate glass baubles. The entirety of the moment filled him with a comforting sense of familiarity, and he had to wonder why something as simple as packing away Christmas ornaments could lend him a sense of peace—something that had eluded him for so very long.

Maybe it was the mundane nature of the actions; there wasn’t anything outstanding about the disassembly of the tree. Still, watching as Isabelle moved from one side to the other in her quest to locate matching ornaments, the calm that infiltrated his very being both soothed and frightened him. Every day, he grew more and more accustomed to her presence, and every day she became more and more necessary to him, but the precarious balance of his life was too fragile, too easy to upset. He’d never been good at living for the moment; never had been able to cast away the worries of what would come with the rising sun in the morning. That was the real reason he had always kept everything in a measured order, in a carefully contrived pattern that never, ever deviated from the norm.

At least, that was how it had been until the day he’d answered the door only to find her standing on his porch with that laptop computer and her nervous little smile . . .

He probably should have sent her away back then. That would have been the safest thing to do, but he also couldn’t say that he honestly regretted his decision to help her, and maybe that was the most frightening truth of them all.

“Now about him . . .” she said, carefully plucking the idiot bear from the top of the tree and gathering the cord in one hand.   “He won’t fit in that box . . .”

“Damn shame,” he grunted, making a show of closing up the lip and reaching for the thick rope handles. “Guess you’ll have to throw it out.”

“Don’t be silly,” she chided, heading out of the living room toward the hallway to stash the stupid thing in her closet, he supposed. “He’s perfectly adorable. He needs to be on our tree _every_ year.”

Griffin snorted at that but couldn’t staunch the flow of blood that shot to the surface of his skin at the implication that there would be another Christmas for the two of them, and as loathe as he was to admit it, he couldn’t help the feeling of well-being that surged in him, either; the wild hope that maybe . . .

‘ _Stop being stupid_ ,’ he told himself firmly, snatching up the crate to put it away. ‘ _She didn’t mean that the way it sounded._ ’

Of course she didn’t, did she? Scowling as he stacked the crate atop another one in the back of the small closet and adjusted the coats hanging in front of them, Griffin sighed and tried to ignore the voice in the back of his mind that told him that denying the truth wouldn’t help. What was done was done, or so the saying went.

It didn’t matter, did it? As much as he might wish otherwise, there were some things in life that couldn’t be changed; some sins that couldn’t be absolved. A lifetime of good deeds meant nothing in the end when there would always be the one black mark that nothing could ever expunge . . .

Stomping back into the living room, he shook his head as he moved toward the barren tree. He’d drag it outside for now, at least. It was too late to mess around with cutting it into burnable pieces, anyway.

He wasn’t sure which was worse, really; the hope that coursed through him every time Isabelle smiled at him or the animosity that he knew could replace that smile just as quickly when she learned the truth. Grasping the tree and dragging it out of the stand, he tried to brush aside the unsettling thoughts as he lugged the tree toward the back door . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“So how are your parents?” Bas asked as Gunnar dropped his cell phone into his pocket and blanked his expression.

“Well, as always,” Gunnar replied, pasting on a tepid-at-best smile as he reached for the glass of whiskey before him.

Bas nodded slowly, downing half of his beer while he waited for his cousin to speak. Gunnar was always a bit of an enigma, but Bas had a feeling that something entirely different was bothering his cousin lately. He also knew damn well that Gunnar would never fess up to it, even if Bas asked, so he opted to wait until Gunnar felt like clueing him in—if he ever did, that was . . .

“Your mom lay the guilt trip on you for not coming home this year?”

Gunnar shrugged offhandedly and deliberately took his time quaffing the drink. “No.”

“Really? That’s surprising.”

Gunnar snorted and sat back, lifting his hand off the table to motion the waitress over and held up his glass. She nodded and hurried over to the bar, her cheeks pinking slightly, probably at the very idea of being able to talk to a man like Gunnar, in any capacity. The Crow’s Nest wasn’t exactly a high-brow establishment, but Bas figured that beggars couldn’t really be choosers since the number of bars that were actually open on Christmas night could be counted on one hand—maybe one finger. That was the only reason that Gunnar would deign to enter the place, Bas figured. Gunnar had a snobby streak about as wide as the Atlantic Ocean, and then some . . .

But then it had surprised Bas, too, when Gunnar had suggested going out for drinks to start with. Standing in the middle of the Zelig-family’s kitchen as they picked over the leftovers from the huge dinner that Gin had spent hours preparing, he’d suddenly stated that he needed a drink, and while Cain kept liquor stocked at all times, for some reason, Gunnar had wanted to go out, instead . . .

“You make my mother sound like a veritable harridan,” Gunnar remarked dryly.

Bas chuckled. “No, but I know that she does it every year that you don’t go home for the holidays.”

“Mother knows that I’m busy,” Gunnar evaded, idly twisting the empty glass in circles.

“Of course she does,” Bas agreed.

“Oh, _shi-i-it_ ,’ Evan Zelig piped up, leaning back in his chair as he craned his neck to get a better look at something—very likely female—who had just walked into the bar.

“Keep it in your pants, Evan,” Bas grumbled, restraining the urge to reach out and wallop his sibling. “Mom’s here, remember?”

True enough. Whether Gunnar had intended the invitation to extend to everyone in the mansion, it had. The women were flocked around the jukebox at the moment, while the men were sitting at the hoard of tables they’d pushed together to form one big one.

“Aww, bubby, did you _see_ her tits?” Evan grumbled, slumping forward and strangling his bottle of beer. “Ah, never mind . . . those are fake, damn it . . . false advertising, at best . . .”

“Pervert,” Bas mumbled, shaking his head and figuring that he’d be better off to ignore his deranged sibling.

Cain grunted, probably thinking about the Azujubu phallus totem that Evan had given him for Christmas. Disturbing, it was . . . a four foot penis sculpted out of ivory that he’d picked up while he was out on tour in Africa . . . Pretty much everyone had picked up on the shape of the statue in seconds. In fact, the only one who hadn’t was their mother, and that was only because Gin’s mind simply didn’t work in that way. That she’d absolutely loved it and had gone on to set it on the raised marble hearth beside the fireplace in the center of the living room . . . well, Bas had to wonder just how Cain was going to be able to hide it since he was reasonably sure that his father was already considering the best way to make the disturbing thing miraculously disappear . . .

“So, Bas,” Gunnar cut in before the conversation could degenerate any further, “you’ve traveled around Canada some, right?”

Bas blinked and nodded, setting his empty beer bottle aside and giving Gunnar his full attention. “Yeah, why?”

Gunnar shook his head and shrugged, dropping some money onto the waitress’ tray as she set a fresh glass of whiskey in front of him. “Just wondered . . . you, uh, hear any interesting stories up that way?”

“Interesting stories?” Bas echoed. “Nothing remarkable.”

“Depends on your definition of ‘interesting’,” Evan drawled, leaning back in the chair and turning enough to drape his elbow over the back, “and you are talkin’ to the _king_ of boring.”

“Just because the only thing that interests you is sex doesn’t mean that everyone is as warped as you are,” Bas retorted.

Evan just grinned.

“Interesting stories?” Cain muttered, dragging his attention off Gin long enough to cast them a curious glance. “That’s pretty broad . . .”

Gunnar grinned though he didn’t look amused in the least. “Eh, you know, like . . . any regional legends or . . . anything . . .?”

Bas considered his question then shook his head, leaning back as Sydnie crawled into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Not really,” he admitted. “Can’t say I do.”

Gunnar nodded.

“Dance with me, Zelig-sensei,” Gin insisted, grabbing Cain’s hands and tugging.

Cain rolled his eyes but chuckled, letting Gin pull him to his feet. “All right; all right . . .”

Jillian giggled and leaned over Gavin’s shoulder, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek loudly. “Come on, Gavvie,” she prodded. “Dance with me, you big stud.”

Gavin blushed crimson but let Jillian drag him off. Evan chuckled and stood up, pausing long enough to stretch before reaching for Sydnie’s hand. “Come on, pussy-puss. I dance better than the ol’ dog, anyway.”

Bas grunted and narrowed his gaze on his sibling but let him pull Sydnie off to dance just the same, deciding that Gunnar’s uncharacteristically strange line of questioning took precedence, at least for the moment. He did, however, spare a moment to watch as Evan pulled Sydnie into his arms. She laughed at something he said—probably something really perverted—and Bas couldn’t staunch the little growl that surged out of him.

“Really, Bas, jealousy is an ugly thing,” Gunnar remarked rather dryly.

“Shut up,” Bas grumbled, dragging his attention off his mate and pinning Gunnar with a calculating stare. “Gonna tell me what’s with the sudden interest in obscure legends?”

Gunnar grinned rather lazily. It looked completely contrived. “Did I say I have an interest in them?” he countered.

“Sure, you did,” he replied, dragging a hand through his long golden-bronze hair. “So why?”

“Call it mild curiosity,” Gunnar drawled, claws flashing in the paltry light. Eyes darting around despite the sense of calm that he strove to maintain, in Bas’ eyes, Gunnar seemed like he was searching for something—a habit of his whenever he had something on his mind.

“Hmm,” Bas drawled, deciding that if Gunnar wanted to beat around the proverbial bush that there wasn’t really much he could do about it. “If you say so.”

Gunnar heaved a sigh, rubbing his forehead in a tired sort of way—a strange gesture from him. “Do you know what irritates me the most?” he began slowly, his eyes glowing when he finally met Bas’ gaze.

Bas didn’t answer since the response to that particular question could change in the blink of an eye.

“People that try to hide things,” he concluded, his eyes taking on a dangerous glint. “People who go out of their way to hide things . . . and people who can’t see the truth when they’re staring it in the face.”

Bas’ eyebrows shot up, and he leaned back in his chair as he carefully regarded his cousin. “So find out why this person is hiding stuff,” he replied simply enough.

Gunnar’s lips twisted in a half-smile that was colder and more cynical than any that Bas had seen before. “Oh, don’t worry about that, _Bastian_. I fully intend to.” Lifting his glass, he drained the liquor in one gulp. “I promise you that.”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle shook out the red flannel plaid Christmas tree skirt and carefully folded it in half before laying it over the back of the sofa so that she could drop it off at the drycleaner in the morning. It didn’t look dirty, but she knew from experience that tree sap could be quite tricky if it set in.

It was a little depressing, she had to admit. Putting away the Christmas tree always had been one of her least favorite things, but given that Griffin had humored her in the first place, she knew that she’d be pushing her luck to try to leave it up, and even then, it was one of the best Christmases she could remember. The bracelet that he’d given her jingled softly on her wrist, and she couldn’t help the little giggle that bubbled up inside her.

He’d gotten her a Winnie the Pooh charm? That had amused her even though she’d hidden it well enough. Given his reaction, though, she had to wonder if he’d realized when he’d bought it that his nemesis was dangling from the bracelet. Either way, she’d been good and hadn’t teased him about it at all despite her desire to do exactly that.

Wrinkling her nose at the needles that had fallen when Griffin had taken the tree outside, she shook her head. As neat and tidy as the house normally was, the spray of needles looked sorely out of place.

It didn’t take long for her to fetch the broom and dustpan. At least with the wooden floors, the needles were easy enough to sweep up, but somehow the irritating things had spread all over, or so it seemed. There were even some near the wall. Padding across the floor in the thick alpaca yarn socks that Gin had given her, she bent down to pull the curtain out of the way only to stop and frown at the nondescript package hidden beneath the heavy folds.

‘ _Isabelle_ ’ was written in Griffin’s bold but neat printing, and she leaned the broom against the wall before carefully retrieving the package and standing up.

‘ _What . . .?_ ’

Looking around as she idly turned the gift in her hands, she glanced at the back door. The silence of the house echoed in her ears, and she frowned thoughtfully, her attention returning to the package once more. Griffin hadn’t acted like there was a missing present, had he? Why hadn’t he mentioned it?

She uttered a soft sound, almost a whine. She knew why, damn it. As shy as the man tended to be, it wouldn’t surprise her if he had panicked at the last minute and tried to hide it from her . . .

Which, of course, left her with the biggest dilemma of them all: should she put the gift back and pretend that she hadn’t found it or should she open it anyway and assure him that she adored it no matter what it happened to be?

Wandering absently over to the sofa, she sank down with the gift in her lap and waited. Why was it that Griffin always thought that everything he did just wasn’t good enough? It was enough to send a surge of righteous indignation straight through her; irritation that he would ever feel inadequate. It wasn’t true, and she knew that. She’d hoped that he was starting to understand that, too . . .

The scrape of the back door opening followed moments later by a blast of frigid air and the accompanying sounds of Froofie’s claws clicking against the hardwood floor did little to dispel Isabelle’s unsettling thoughts. Griffin stomped his feet on the mat near the door, and in her mind, she could see him slipping off his boots. He’d leave them there until they were dry—Griffin was a creature of habit, wasn’t he? The image of him, leaning against the door handle as he pulled off his boots, being careful not to let any snow fall on the wood floor made her feel like smiling.

So why did her eyes sheen over with suspect moisture, instead?

Dashing the back of her hand over her eyes, she cleared her throat and squared her shoulders as Griffin’s footsteps—absolutely silent though she could feel the floor tremble just the tiniest bit—drew closer. “Yet another reason why cutting down a real tree just to stand in the living room for a few weeks is a complete waste,” he mumbled, surveying the pine needles strewn over the floor.

“This is for me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her words halting and breathless, and she couldn’t quite make herself meet his gaze.

Griffin stood stock-still for a moment. Then he sucked in a breath so sharp that it whistled as the air rushed into his lungs. “Y . . . you . . . i-it’s stupid,” he blurted, leaning down and reaching out to swipe the gift out of her lap.

She grabbed it and smashed it against her chest, scooting to the side and out of Griffin’s reach. “ _No!_ ” she yelled as hot color flooded her cheeks. “I-I mean . . . it has my name on it,” she insisted, modulating her tone as she slowly shook her head.

He looked like he wanted to argue with her. His scowl was black when she finally dared to look up at him, but she didn’t miss the embarrassed color suffusing his skin, either. Standing with his hands on his hips, he scowled at the room almost angrily but stubbornly refused to look at her.

Isabelle bit her lip, slipping a claw under the twine that he’d tied around the package and giving a little tug to cut through it. It fell away with a slight snap, and the paper slipped free, too. He hadn’t messed with tape, or maybe he hadn’t realized that it would have made the job of wrapping the gift a lot easier.

She smiled at the smooth wooden box revealed. Simplistic and sturdy, the only embellishments were the delicate bronze hinges on the one side and the minimal carving on the lid. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

He snorted. “It’s just a box,” he mumbled. “It isn’t the . . . the gift is inside,” he admitted with a sigh.

It took a moment for her mind to digest that, and she couldn’t understand why her hands were shaking when she started to lift the lid. Maybe it was Griffin’s own sense of reluctance that swayed her. She didn’t know, but she couldn’t help but smile, either.

“Oh,” she gasped, blinking at the wooden sculpture inside. Small, certainly, but the attention to detail was remarkable. The dog was curled up on his belly with his nose nestled between his paws, and she laughed softly when she lifted it out of the box to inspect it closer.

“Like I said, it’s dumb,” he mumbled, turning away before she could look at his face. “Just . . . throw it in the fire or something. It’s wood. It’ll burn . . .”

“I will not!” she huffed, scowling at Griffin’s wide back. “He looks just like Froofie,” she commented.

He snorted but didn’t turn around again. “It’s just a stupid hunk of wood.”

“Says you,” she shot back, stroking the statue’s head with the tip of her finger. “It’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever given me.”

He snorted again but didn’t respond.

“You can see it, you know,” she murmured, reaching out to scratch the real Froofie behind the ears.

“See what?” he asked rather grudgingly.

“The love,” she replied simply. “Whoever made this . . . he loved making it, didn’t he?”

Griffin was silent for a moment. Isabelle didn’t notice.   So enthralled with the simple gift that only Griffin would think of giving to her, she couldn’t help the complete and utter warmth that filled her as she stared at the carving.

“Maybe he did,” Griffin said, his voice oddly husky.

Isabelle blinked and glanced up at him, but he was already heading out of the living room. “Griffin . . .?”

“Want some tea?” he asked over his shoulder without slowing his gait.

“Sure . . .”

“Don’t ask for sugar,” he warned. “Honey . . . that’s what’s supposed to be put in tea . . .”

Slowly, so slowly, Isabelle smiled. Somehow, she always seemed to understand all those things that Griffin just never could bring himself to say . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _It’s my puppy!_


	37. New Year's Eve

Isabelle stood back and rubbed her arms through the thinner material of the tweed coat. It wasn’t nearly as warm as her normal winter jacket, but when she’d actually managed to talk Griffin into going to one of the area’s nicer restaurants, she’d opted to wear something a bit more apropos with the short black dress that had left the man speechless for nearly five minutes when he’d clapped eyes on her . . .

He mumbled something—she didn’t quite catch it—and pushed the door open before stepping back to let Isabelle inside.

He’d looked pretty damn spectacular, himself, she allowed with a secretive little smile. The blazer he’d worn was clean and neat even if it was a little dated. She’d never seen him wear such a thing before, and it had amused her when he’d kept tugging on the sleeves and straightening his tie in a decidedly nervous sort of way. He’d kept looking at her, too—something that certainly hadn’t gone unnoticed—and she couldn’t help but laugh when he’d suddenly excused himself from the table only to return from the bathroom a few minutes later with freshly combed hair and an entirely endearing, if not completely chagrined, expression on his face.

“I had such a good time,” she said as she knelt down to greet Froofie. The poor dog was beside himself. He’d always hated to be left home alone, but the cat, of course, was nowhere to be seen. Whining and prancing around between bouts of rolling on the floor, Froofie nudged her hand then licked her fingers, trying to do everything at one time, she supposed.

“Did my Froofie-kins miss me?” she asked in an exaggeratedly contrite tone.

“It’s Charlie,” Griffin interjected, “and he didn’t. He just wants to know if you brought home a doggy bag.” Shoving the door closed to block out the frigid night air, Griffin wiped his shoes off on the welcome mat and leaned against the wall to balance himself while he removed his shoes.

“No, no, he missed his mama, didn’t you, Froofums?” she went on, kissing him loudly right between the eyes and giggling at Griffin's use of the term 'doggy bag'.

“Nice . . . Rub your lipstick all over the poor beast,” Griffin grumbled.

She laughed and stood up, watching with a broad grin as the dog galumphed past her to greet Griffin. “I did not,” she argued, unbuttoning her coat and starting to shrug it off. Griffin’s hand grasped the garment, and he gently pulled it away from her. “Thank you,” she murmured, craning her neck to look up at him. His cheeks were pinked, and he looked acutely embarrassed as he turned away to hang her coat in the closet.

“Are you going to go change now?” he asked, his tone even more surly than normal, and his voice muffled by the closet.

“Why the rush?” she asked, slipping off her shoes and arranging them neatly beside Griffin’s.

He snorted. “There’s no one to impress here,” he said, pushing the closet closed and slapping his thigh to get Froofie to follow him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, trailing after him as he headed for the back door. She stopped to turn on the lamp beside the sofa, amused by Griffin’s commentary.

“Are you going to try to say that you weren’t enjoying the attention you were getting?” he countered, yanking the door open and letting Froofie run out into the back yard.

Isabelle rolled her eyes and shook her head but didn’t laugh though she was hard-pressed not to. He almost sounded . . . jealous, didn’t he?

“Now, Dr. Griffin, you know very well that you’re the only man for me,” she assured him.

Griffin grunted. “Jezebel,” he hissed.

She did laugh at that while he disappeared into the kitchen.

To be completely honest, it had bothered her quite a bit. During dinner, the waiter had approached their table a couple of times with drinks sent over that she certainly hadn’t ordered. Both times she’d smiled and told the waiter politely albeit firmly that she didn’t want the drinks, but still . . . Griffin had tried to hide his feelings, but she could sense his irritation over the situation, and she couldn’t blame him, either. How must it have seemed to him? After all, it should have been apparent that she was dining with Griffin. In her opinion, it had been more than a little rude, and she’d been hard-pressed not to march right over to them and dump the drinks in their perspective laps . . .

‘ _Of course it bothered him_ ,’ her youkai chided. ‘ _You know how sensitive he is about the way he looks. That probably made him feel even worse, after all_ . . .’

She heaved a sigh and shook her head, slowly sinking down on the sofa with a wince. She knew that, certainly. What she didn’t know was what she was supposed to have done instead. Would it have done any good to be rude to the men? She hadn’t encouraged them in any way. In fact, she’d gone out of her way to make sure that she didn’t as much as smile at them. Still, he hadn’t seemed to mind the restaurant otherwise, and that was something, wasn’t it?

Besides, it was New Year’s Eve; a night for celebrating the ending of one year and the beginning of another. She’d considered trying to talk Griffin into staying at the restaurant for the midnight celebration, but in the end, she hadn’t bothered to mention it. It was enough for her that he’d agreed to dinner, and even then, she had to admit that the idea of having Griffin all to herself at midnight was far more to her liking, anyway . . .

“Here.”

Isabelle blinked and jerked back as Griffin stuck a mug of tea under her nose. She could smell the honey he’d added to it and smiled. He’d told her early on that she wasn’t allowed to get into ‘his’ honey. It was telling, wasn’t it? Willing to share that with her though she seriously doubted he’d ever share his honey roasted nuts . . . “Thank you,” she said, taking the mug and holding it in both hands, watching as steam rose from the surface in delicate wisps only to disburse in the air.

He nodded but didn’t comment, heading over to his desk and tugging on his tie with his free hand. He’d discarded his jacket after letting Froofie out, too . . .

“You’re not really going to work on the translation tonight, are you?” she asked, arching an eyebrow as she drew her feet up beside her and leaned on the arm of the sofa.

“That was the plan, yes,” he allowed without facing her.

“But it’s New Year’s Eve,” she protested with a petulant little scowl.

“Just another night,” he countered mildly. “Anyway, we did what you wanted to do. I let you drag me out for dinner, didn’t I?”

“Oh, come on, Dr. G . . . New Year’s Eve is special . . . the greeting of the new year is important, you know.”

“You’re kind of a pest,” he remarked with a shake of his head. “Anyone ever tell you that before?”

“It doesn’t count when it’s your cousin saying such things,” she said, waving one hand in the air in blatant dismissal.

“Your cousin is a smart man,” he intoned.

Her lips twitched. “It was Mamoruzen.”

“I take that back.”

She laughed outright. “You know, you at least have to have a glass of champagne with me at midnight,” she pointed out.

He snorted. “I don’t drink.”

“It’s just champagne,” she shot back.

“I doubt your parents let you drink champagne as a cub,” he argued.

“Actually they did—just a sip. Well, mostly seltzer water with a dab of champagne in it, but that’s entirely beside the point. It’s a tradition back home, and traditions should be upheld, especially since I wasn’t able to go home for the holidays.”

He was rolling his eyes; she knew he was. Sometimes he was just a little too predictable . . .

“Forget it, Jezebel. I’m on to you.”

“Fine, fine,” she said with a melodramatic sigh. “It’s _fine_ ; just _fine_ . . . who cares if my entire year will be thrown off because I didn’t honor my family’s long and fabled traditions . . .”

“You didn’t get spanked nearly enough as a child, did you?” Griffin asked.

Isabelle lifted the tea to her lips to hide her smile. “Not even once,” she assured him.

He tugged the tie off and dropped it onto the desk. “That’s why you’re such a pariah,” he maintained.

“A pariah? That’s such an archaic word, Griffin . . .”

He grunted.

“Are you going to spank your children?” she teased.

“Every day.”

She giggled. “I don’t think you would. I think you’d be a big old softy when it comes to your pups.”

“There will be no pups,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet and retrieving his tea mug before shuffling over to the sofa. “I know I’m going to regret this, but . . . what other ‘long and fabled’ traditions does your family have?”

“The midnight kiss?” she said, unable to keep the hint of hope out of her tone.

He blushed and shook his head. “Dream on, fat ass.”

She laughed. “Oh, and the all-important ‘New Year’s Twister’ game?”

“New Year’s Twister? I’ll pass.”

She shrugged. “I don’t have a Twister game, anyway,” she allowed.

“That’s not really one of your traditions, is it?”

Her smile widened impishly as she leaned toward him, nudging him with her shoulder. “No, but it sounded good . . . it should be one, don’t you think?”

“Hrumph . . . no.”

“We could play it naked,” she suggested.

Griffin choked on a drink of tea. “Jezebel,” he wheezed, clearing his throat and coughing madly as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

“You’re incredibly sexy when you blush,” she couldn’t help saying.

Griffin grunted and blushed a little darker. “You didn’t need spanked; you needed to be beaten,” he grumbled.

“Probably,” she agreed lightly. “You know, I always felt so grown up when Mama gave me that glass of weak champagne . . . kind of silly when I was normally sitting there in my footy-pajamas . . .”

“Footy-pajamas?”

She nodded, leaning forward to set the empty mug on the table. “Yes . . . the ones with the enclosed feet; all fuzzy and warm and cozy . . .”

He shot her a look that stated quite plainly that he thought that she was joking. “Sounds very sophisticated,” he remarked.

Isabelle laughed softly then sighed as a slight pang of homesickness swelled in her chest. It didn’t happen often, but there were moments when she missed the simplicity of the past, and holidays . . . it was easier to miss those things when she thought about the years of her childhood. “Absolutely,” she agreed with a little smile. “It’s funny . . . all the years growing up, I kept thinking that I couldn’t wait to be an adult, and then once I realized that I had grown up, I can’t help but miss my childhood, too . . .”

He considered her words carefully, a strange sort of sadness lending a glassiness to his gaze. “Attean told me that New Year’s Eve was the night when you were supposed to think back over the past year and let go of the things that that had happened that you couldn’t change.”

“Sound advice,” she said.

He shrugged and sighed, rubbing his forehead with a slightly trembling hand. “I suppose it is,” he replied though he sounded like he wasn’t very convinced.

She didn’t really know what to say to him; he seemed so pensive, so sad. She hated to see him like that, and yet she realized that there wasn’t a thing she could do when he stubbornly, almost selfishly, held onto his silence.

The moments passed, punctuated by the tick of the clock on the mantle. Griffin drained the last of his tea and set the mug, standing up and lumbering toward the fireplace to drop more wood into the glowing embers. “So what other traditions did your family have?” he asked at last. “Real ones.”

Isabelle twisted a lock of hair around her finger. It had escaped the simple chignon she’d swept her hair up into before they’d gone to dinner. “Mostly we’d just sit around and talk about the past year . . . the things that had happened, the things that we hoped for in the new year . . . that sort of thing . . .”

“Sounds . . .”

“Boring, I know,” she supplied when he trailed off. “I suppose it doesn’t sound very glamorous or anything . . .”

“I was going to say ‘nice’,” he corrected quietly.

His response caught her off guard, and she smiled. “You think so?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice deep and warm. “Did you make New Year’s resolutions, too?”

“Sometimes,” she allowed. “Papa swore every year that he was going to devote more time to his family, but you know, I don’t remember a time when he was ever too busy for me or my sisters . . . We sat on the floor in his study while he worked in the evenings, and we’d play games and stuff while Mama read, but any time we asked Papa something, he always put his work away to answer us or play with us . . . I don’t think that we ever felt as though we weren’t the most important things in the world to him, so maybe he really did keep his New Year’s resolutions . . .”

Griffin nodded, arranging the logs in the fire with a wrought iron poker. Mesmerized by the way the firelight played on his features, she couldn’t help staring at his profile. The shadows seemed darker, deeper, far more mysterious while the angles seemed so much more pronounced . . . Eyes shining, he seemed almost content, and while she didn’t delude herself into believing that he had fully come to accept her presence, she knew that he was making progress, even if it was slow, and even if it wasn’t something that he’d ever want to admit.

He complimented her, didn’t he? His temperament was so very different from hers, but that difference wasn’t a bad thing. He lent her a sense of calm, of order, of safety that she had come to rely on. He was everything that she wasn’t, and yet he didn’t seem to realize it, either. She’d never understand why he just couldn’t see the beauty that she saw whenever she looked into those eyes of his . . .

“Fine,” he allowed, breaking the companionable silence that had fallen between them. “I’ll humor you on one condition.”

Unable to help the little smile that quirked her lips, she giggled. “What’s your condition, big man?”

He snorted, cheeks pinking—she knew he’d blush. “No naked anything,” he mumbled. “That means no naked Twister, no naked poker, no naked checkers—no naked _anything_.”

“Okay,” she agreed slowly, her reluctance evident in her tone.

Slowly turning his head, he narrowed his eyes on her. “And no _mention_ of naked anything.”

She really did try to keep from smiling. It just didn’t work. “Now where’s the fun in that?” she complained with a laugh.

He rolled his eyes but snorted indelicately. “Take it or leave it, Jezebel,” he warned.

“All right,” she hurried to say, waving her hands. “I’ll be good; I swear!”

He didn’t look like he believed her, but he gave a curt nod and pushed himself to his feet, dropping the poker into the stand on the hearth before turning around to face her. Outlined in the firelight, he seemed even larger than he normally did—quite a feat considering that he was easily one of the biggest men she’d ever met. Broad shoulders, thick with muscles but not quite as bulky as her cousin, Bastian, he really was a sight to behold . . .

All the same, she forced her gaze away, figuring that if she didn’t, she might slip and make a reference that would nullify his participation for the evening, and since he was being somewhat agreeable at the moment, the last thing she wanted to do was push her luck.

She stood up and hurried to the kitchen, refilling the tea kettle and setting it on a thick wood tray before measuring out enough of Griffin’s special mixture of dried leaves and herbs—his tea. That done, she grabbed a napkin, the mini-strainer, a plate of molasses pecan cookies, and the honey pot and carried the tray back into the living room.

Griffin took the kettle from her and carefully arranged it in the glowing embers on the hot stones of the hearth while Isabelle set the tray on the table and held out a cookie to him. “Thanks,” he mumbled, plucking the cookie away and reaching for the plate with his free hand.

“Oi!” she exclaimed, not at all surprised that he’d unceremoniously claimed the entire plate of cookies for himself. “You’re going to give me one, aren’t you?”

“No,” he stated flatly moments before shoving the whole cookie into his mouth.

“But I made them,” she protested.

“For me.”

She heaved a sigh and shook her head, giving up since she knew very well that Griffin wasn’t about to share. Some things were sacred, she figured, and cookies were one of those things . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“So how long did you live with Attean and Maria?” Isabelle asked, sipping her tea as she peered over the rim of the mug.

Griffin shrugged. He’d made the fatal mistake of mentioning that he’d stayed with the couple for a time, and he should have known that it would strike her overzealous curiosity in a huge way. “I don’t know . . . a few years . . .” he hedged.

If she noticed the reluctance in his tone, she didn’t give it any credence. “What’s your definition of a few years?” she parried.

He grunted. “Dunno . . . forty? Fifty? I didn’t count . . .”

She laughed, obviously amused at his perception of time. “You really have lived a long time, haven’t you?” she mused.

Griffin shot her what should have been a quelling glance. She laughed at him instead. “Why do you think that?” he asked, giving up on the idea that she’d drop the subject.

Isabelle shrugged, the motion of her delicate shoulders all too noticeable in the flirt of a dress that she still wore. She seemed completely comfortable, which just figured. He’d caught himself staring at her time and again, unable to reconcile the Isabelle he knew with the woman sitting on the floor beside him. Normally dressed in slacks or jeans and a soft sweater or even a tee-shirt, she looked entirely unapproachable dressed as she was. The change had been astounding for him, almost unbearably so. It had frightened him, hadn’t it? The very idea that she could change so drastically in the blink of an eye like that . . . she looked like she’d just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine, and all he’d been able to think was just what the hell was a woman who looked like her doing with a man like him . . .?

He could feel the warmth of her—far more than a physical thing; something that lived and breathed and reached out to him, closer than he’d ever let anyone get to him before. Her proximity was comforting when it should have scared him, compelling when it should have repulsed him. Maybe it was stupidity on his part; maybe it was a lifetime of loneliness that had left a part of him completely unguarded against her. It didn’t really matter, did it, not when she was so near . . .

“Some of the things you say remind me of stuff that Grandpa’s said before . . . His idea of ‘a few years’ and yours seem pretty similar.”

Griffin grunted and swallowed hard when Isabelle leaned against his shoulder. He glanced down at her only to find her staring into the dancing flames with a secretive little smile on her face and a sense of contentment that he couldn’t quite credit. He sat stock-still, unable to move as he forced his eyes away from her. At times like this, he felt so inadequate; his years of self-imposed isolation painfully asserting themselves. He’d been so sure that he didn’t deserve to be around others—didn’t _want_ to be around anyone else—that it had become second nature to him . . .

Isabelle sighed softly, and he frowned when he noticed the almost sad expression in her gaze. She looked like she was remembering something; something that upset her, and he gritted his teeth as an unaccountable surge of rage shot through him; anger that anything could have the power to hurt her in such a way . . . “You’re not going to leak, are you?” he muttered, grimacing inwardly at his own cowardice, his own inability to give voice to the things that were foremost in his mind.

She laughed softly, more of an exhalation than a real show of amusement. “It’s nothing,” she admitted quietly. “Just . . . I guess I got a little homesick for a minute. I mean, I know that I chose to move here, but . . . I guess sometimes—especially on holidays . . .” She sighed and shrugged as though she were trying to shake off the momentary lapse. “Yesterday was Papa’s birthday, did you know? He has the biggest party every year. Well, actually, Mama does for him and Uncle Ryomaru. Everyone’s there, and it’s so much fun . . . Sometimes Papa plays the piano, and my sisters and I would sing with him. Of course, I’m pretty pathetic at it. Can’t really carry a tune very well, but my baby sister, Sami? She sounds like . . .” She trailed off and laughed. “It sounds utterly cliché, but Sami sounds like an angel.”

“If she’s anything like you, I’d find _that_ hard to believe,” Griffin commented dryly.

Isabelle laughed a bit shakily. “No, seriously! She’s really, really good! I think she gets it from Papa. He’s really something when it comes to music . . . he could have been a professional, I think, but he wanted to be a doctor . . . He says music is just a hobby for him, but you know, I remember how much he enjoyed teaching Evan how to play the piano . . .”

“And you feel bad for missing your papa’s birthday,” he concluded.

With a shrug, she sighed softly, her smile taking on a slightly bashful sort of air. “Something like that. You know, on New Year’s Eve, we always danced together. When I was really small, Papa would hold me and sort of put one arm around Mama . . . then he’d balance both Lexi and me in his arms while Mama put her arms around all of us . . . He said that the new year would be jinxed if he didn’t get to dance with his girls . . .”

Griffin grunted, unsure what to say to that. If he hadn’t been looking at her, he might have been able to convince himself that she was just trying to manipulate him into doing something stupid. As it was, though, the look on her face—the pensiveness in her gaze despite the trembling smile that still touched her lips as she continued to stare into the flames—he knew better, didn’t he? He knew _her_ better . . .

He couldn’t stand the feeling that there wasn’t a thing he could do to comfort her. The vulnerability in the depths of her eyes dug at him, and even if she said that it wasn’t a big deal, it was to her or she wouldn’t look so very sad. As he watched her fighting to get a grip on her emotions, he couldn’t help the irrepressible sense of utter indignation that she should feel as though she needed to put on a good face for him. It made him feel completely selfish, like the lowest filth on earth . . .

Pushing himself to his feet, he strode across the room to the small enclosed cupboard where he stored some of his books and the old radio that he kept around to listen to the weather forecasts. He’d had the thing for what seemed like forever, and he couldn’t actually recall when he’d picked it up in the first place. While the technology that was used to project radio waves had changed dramatically over time, the old unit had never failed him, and he’d never felt the need to replace it. Still, he couldn’t help but worry that he wouldn’t be able to find a station that was something other than talk radio.

She scooted around, sitting on her knees as she watched him in silence as he fiddled with the manual tuning knob. Grimacing as the sound of static grated on his nerves, he flipped past a station playing something slow and almost soothing before backtracking until the static dissipated. The song was old—really old—slow and soft and pretty. He’d heard it before though he couldn’t rightfully recall when or where, and as he slowly turned around, he tried to ignore the voice in the back of his mind that reminded him that he didn’t know how to dance; that he was probably going to make a fool of himself.

But he brushed the unsettling thoughts aside and hesitantly stepped toward her, frowning as he tried to figure out exactly how this sort of thing was supposed to be done, and realizing just a moment too late that he had never, ever danced with anyone before in his life.

The expression on her face—the cautious sense of hope combined with the tenderness in the brilliance of her eyes—was just too difficult for him to ignore. The way she looked at him filled him with a strange sort of emotion, the absolute feeling that he could do anything— _anything_ —if only she asked him to. Clearing his throat, he held out his hand, tamping down the acute embarrassment that warred with the underlying feeling that he was about to do something colossally stupid. “Just don’t step on me, all right?” he mumbled.

Slowly, hesitantly, she reached up, slipped her hand into his. Her fingers looked so very tiny beside his, felt so delicate . . . He pulled her to her feet and swallowed hard. “I-I’ve never . . .” he grimaced. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted quietly.

She smiled sweetly and positioned his left hand on her right hip then bent her left elbow as she stepped closer to him. His fingers closed around hers, and he clenched his teeth together, concentrating on not stepping on her feet when she started swaying slightly in his arms. “I don’t think this is dancing,” he said after a minute of silence.

Isabelle sighed, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “There’s not much too it,” she agreed softly.

It felt . . .

Griffin scowled, feeling the carefully constructed walls he’d built around himself so long ago starting to crumble. She was too near, too warm, too acquiescent. Her youki gave way to his, wrapped around his in an unsettling yet wholly familiar way, as though he’d known her for a lifetime or more . . . as though he had just been waiting for her . . .

She sighed and stepped just a little closer as though she needed to be as close to him as she could possibly be. Charlie lifted his head where he was curled up near the hearth, and he wagged his tail once then twice as though he were giving his unspoken blessing. The cat rolled over onto her back, shoving her head under Charlie’s chin, and the dog settled down once more, dozing off as Griffin closed his eyes and let his cheek rest on Isabelle’s head.

The song ended way too soon, and he stifled a sigh as reality intruded on his mind once more. The pragmatic part of him was screaming that he needed to get away from her, and yet . . .

And yet he just couldn’t do it. If she noticed the song had ended, he couldn’t tell, or maybe she was dancing to a song that only she could hear, but whatever the reason, he couldn’t quite bring himself to let the moment die, couldn’t stand the idea of stepping away from her. She was far more precious to him than anything else had ever been, and even if he couldn’t hold onto her forever, maybe letting a moment in time last just a little longer wasn’t a bad thing, either . . .

“I-Isabelle?” he finally said, wincing inwardly at the harshness of his voice in the quiet.

“Hmm?” she intoned without opening her eyes.

He sighed. “Th-The song . . . it’s over . . .”

She sighed, too and leaned back to look up at him but made no move to break the contact of her body against his. He opened his mouth to tell her that she’d had her New Year’s Eve dance but stopped, captured in the brilliance of her gaze. Cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted as a million stars gathered in her eyes, he couldn’t look away from her, could feel every coherent thought slip from his mind as easily as dandelion fluff captured on the summer breeze. The beat of her heart was erratic and wanton, radiating from her to him in a quiet sort of reverberation, beckoning him closer, closer . . . closer . . .

His body seemed to react of its own accord, drawn by the invisible strands of an unvoiced desire. Leaning down, touching her lips with his, unable to stop himself as he gave in to the need to touch her, he let go of her hand to draw her nearer.

She slipped her arms around his neck, her lips warm and soft and unbearably sweet. Willing to accept what he was able to offer her, she kissed him back in an infinitely tender way.

He’d never been good with words, had he, but it didn’t seem to matter. As though she understood him completely, unerringly, bent to his will she sighed softly, letting him brush his lips over hers time and again.

He let his head fall back and drew a deep breath—maybe he was trying to save a semblance of his sanity; he wasn’t sure. Isabelle cuddled against him, her breathing unsteady as she leaned against him in an entirely boneless sort of way. “I-Isabelle,” he whispered, struggling to give voice to the emotions roiling through him.

She laughed unsteadily. “I know, Griffin,” she replied. “I know . . .”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
>  _… Dancing…?_


	38. Discontent

Isabelle scowled at the closed basement door and let out a deep breath that lifted her bangs straight up off her forehead. She’d arrived home a couple hours ago, and Griffin, as usual, had yet to show himself.

‘ _This is getting a little ridiculous_ ,’ she fumed, crossing her arms over her chest and heaving a sigh as she shook her head in abject frustration. ‘ _Why’s he acting so weird?_ ’

‘ _Acting weird?_ ’ her youkai scoffed. ‘ _We’re talking about Griffin here. You’re damn lucky he didn’t make you leave. You should have known he’d freak out. Is it really that difficult to understand?_ ’

Her scowl turned mulish. ‘ _It was just one little kiss_ ,’ she asserted.

‘ _One little kiss? Don’t be stupid, Bitty. It wasn’t just one little kiss, not to you and certainly not to him_.’

Isabelle sighed again, turning away from the door with an indelicate snort. Of course it wasn’t ‘just one little kiss’. No, it was more than enough to throw her for a loop, so she could imagine what he must have been feeling. She’d come to understand long ago that Griffin most likely had little to no experience as far as women were concerned, and while the idea pleased her, it was also the biggest reason for his unfathomable reaction, she supposed.

Still it had been nearly three weeks since that fateful night and that kiss, and in the space of those three weeks, Griffin had taken to avoiding her at all costs, or so it would seem. Holed up in the basement for hours on end, more often than not, he skipped supper completely like he truly believed that she was evil or something—absolutely ridiculous, really, if one stopped to think on it. He was the one who had done the kissing, wasn’t he? She’d been a little too stunned to do anything more than let him do it. Caught up in the moment, she supposed . . .

And it didn’t really help that she could understand his feelings. It scared him, didn’t it? For that matter, it had scared her just a little, too. She’d never, ever felt so many emotions from just one kiss, and while it had begun a bit clumsily, she couldn’t help but get a certain weakness in her knees if she dared to stop and dwell on it, too.

She’d thought that they were making progress. The holidays had seemed like such a wonderful time. He’d been almost unguarded, and while she’d appreciated it, maybe it had lent her a false sense of accomplishment when she ought to have realized that Griffin was just too damn shy and too damn stubborn to give in that easily.

Unfortunately, that solitary kiss had only served to solidify what she knew intuitively to be true: he was her mate, no doubt about it. If she could just make the obstinate man admit it, she’d be one step ahead of the game . . .

The trouble was that she’d tried nearly everything she could think of to get Griffin to stay in the same room with her for more than a minute, but nothing she tried seemed to have any effect. No, if anything, he’d seemed even more resolved to stay away from her.

All in all, she felt like stomping her foot and basically having a temper tantrum. In the end, though, she didn’t, heaving a longsuffering sigh and shuffling off toward the kitchen to start dinner.

If it weren’t enough that Griffin was acting so strangely, she’d spent the bulk of her day restating over and over that she didn’t do anything wrong in the Baby Girl McKinley case. The panel she’d been brought before hadn’t indicated in expression or body language what they’d been thinking, either. If they decided that there was enough evidence to add gravity to the McKinley’s case against her, then she’d have to go to trial, and while she couldn’t help but feel guilty over the situation—it was normal, wasn’t it?—she also knew that she really hadn’t made any mistakes in her treatment. Logic assured her that she’d be exonerated in the end, but that would hardly offer any consolation to the couple who had lost their infant daughter.

“ _It’s not a perfect world, Baby. Sometimes you’ll be the hero, and sometimes you won’t,” her father had said in his philosophical sort of way when she’d called him last night. Too worried about the preliminary hearing to get any real rest, she’d dialed the number without considering what time it would have been in Japan. Luckily, it was early afternoon there, and her father had been in the lab working on some of the samples he’d had to reassemble after the break-in_.

“ _I know,” she said, smoothing the blankets over her legs as she sat up in bed and scowled at the lump of her feet_.

“ _Do you want me to fly out there?” he asked, his voice gentle and soft, and she didn’t doubt for a moment that he absolutely would if she wanted him to_.

“ _No,” she replied, rubbing her forehead with a weary hand. “It’s all right_ . . .”

“ _Are you sure?_ ”

 _The concern in his voice brought tears to her eyes, and she blinked furiously to stave them back. She’d been so lonely lately, and for reasons she didn’t really want to consider, the idea that her father would fly so far just to be with her . . . She sighed. It was strange, really.   She and Griffin were living in the same house, and yet she felt so completely removed from him. “I’m sure, Papa,” she insisted, inflicting a false brightness into her tone. “I, um, I think I should go. I should at least try to get some sleep, right?_ ”

“ _I’d feel much better if you were taking someone with you,” Kichiro went on. “Even if they can’t come in with you, they can at least offer moral support by being there_.”

“ _It’s fine,” she assured him, wishing that she believed her words. “Anyway, would you give Mama and Sami my love?_ ”

“ _Absolutely. You call me after the meeting, understand?_ ”

“ _Of course_.”

 _He snorted. “Keh. That’s the same tone your mama uses when she’s just trying to humor me_.”

“ _I will, Papa, I promise_.”

“ _You’d better_.”

Isabelle slapped raw pork chops onto a roasting pan and grimaced. She still needed to call her father. She’d promised, after all. Somehow faking cheerfulness and pretending to be optimistic . . . It was completely beyond her capabilities, at least at the moment.

It was simply intolerable, in her opinion. Griffin’s illogical behavior was enough to send her emotions careening out of her control, alternating between abject frustration and bouts of near tears, and all in the matter of moments. Maybe she could better understand him if he’d just talk to her, but of course, that was apparently out of the question, too . . .

Heaving a sigh borne of abject frustration, Isabelle slapped the broiling rack into the oven and let the oven door slam closed before reaching for the knob that set the temperature and giving it a good jerk, too. It didn’t do much to appease her current pique, and with a shake of her head, she turned around to scrub her hands.

If Griffin followed the same ritual as he had for the last few weeks, he’d reappear long enough to grab a plate of food, mumble something about being busy, and disappear into the basement once more, but as much as she’d love to come up with a way to circumvent it tonight, she was drawing a blank.

‘ _Face it, Bitty, you’re just not good at this sort of thing_.’

‘ _This sort of thing?_ ’ she echoed.

‘ _That’s right. You’ve never really had to work this hard to garner a man’s attention, have you? And you hate it; you really hate it_.’

‘ _Hrumph_ ,’ Isabelle snorted, wrinkling her nose and tossed the towel onto the cupboard as she turned to stomp out of the kitchen again. Maybe a nice, long soak in the tub would do her some good. In any event, it couldn’t really hurt, now could it?

With that thought in mind, she strode into the bathroom to start the taps before heading into her bedroom long enough to grab a change of clothes.

Her youkai had a point, as much as she hated to admit it. She really hadn’t ever had to try so hard to get a man’s attention. Normally it was the other way around, actually. She tended to lose interest quickly enough—understandable, she supposed, since none of the guys she’d ever dated were even close to mate-material. Unfortunately it also left her at a distinct disadvantage. After all, she’d tried practically everything she could think of, and not a damn thing had even come close to working.

Closing the bathroom door, she slumped back against it, letting her head fall back as she closed her eyes. In the end, she was no closer to coming up with a viable solution to the problem at hand than she had been three weeks ago.

‘ _Some new year_ ,’ she thought sourly, pushing herself away from the door and slowly working the buttons of her blouse. It had to get better, didn’t it? After all, it couldn’t really get much worse . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Crumpling the paper in his fist so tightly that his knuckles turned white, Alastair Gregory uttered a terse growl and ground his teeth together. He was no closer to solving the mystery of where the research was than he had been a month ago, and the lack of viable progress was enough to irritate the hell out of him. Used to getting results in short order, he couldn’t stand the unsettling feeling that something was escaping his notice.

That damned Zelig, that hanyou-lover. Foolish enough to have taken a human to mate the first time around and then to possess audacity enough to take a hanyou mate the second time? His spawn might well be considered youkai, but the tainted human blood that ran through the veins of the next Zelig was nothing more than a mark of shame. Still, it was _his_ fault, wasn’t it? What sort of game was he playing? Common logic should have dictated that the reasonable choice to complete the research was Izayoi, but that wasn’t the case, and whether by accident or by design, Alastair couldn’t help but feel like they were all playing him for a fool.

It was a feeling that Alastair Gregory didn’t like, and more to the point, it was a feeling that he simply wouldn’t accept, not by a long shot . . .

Well, the Zelig would find out, wouldn’t he? Accept defeat? ‘ _Never_ ,’ he vowed, narrowed eyes shifting to the thickening darkness outside the window. Knowing damn well that there was no way that Zelig would be stupid enough to trust anyone other than family with the research, it was simply a matter of narrowing down the potential candidates, wasn’t it?

‘ _Patience, patience_ ,’ he told himself, chanting it over and over again like a mantra. He’d waited this long, hadn’t he? He could wait just a little longer.

Exhaling slowly, he dropped the crumpled bit of paper into the trashcan beside the ornately carved desk and paused long enough to consider his options. It was best for him to get control of the research as quickly as possible. He couldn’t afford for Zelig to figure out exactly what it was, after all. It was too valuable—more valuable than those short-sighted fools would ever realize. Alastair _knew_. He knew too well exactly what could be possible with knowledge of that nature. The very idea of what it could do was as abhorrent to him as it was enticing. The things that could be accomplished with that sort of understanding . . .

He broke into a thin smile—more of a smirk than a show of amusement—as a malevolent inflection entered his stony gaze. It could bring about the world he’d always dreamed of, couldn’t it? An insular world where youkai were given free reign, where the sovereignty of the most perfect beings could be a reality . . . a world where the blight of man would be eliminated, as it should have been long, long ago . . .

“Call Willis,” he rumbled, his voice deep, commanding.

The telephone hummed to life for a moment before the intonation of the dialed number impeded the silence.

“Hello?”

“I need you to do a task for me,” Alastair said without preamble.

“My lord Gregory? Have you returned from your travels?”

“Dispense with the pleasantries, Willis,” Alastair growled. “I need you to gather information for me.”

Jeremiah Willis cleared his throat. In the background, Alastair could hear the rustle of fabric, as though Willis had been sleeping. “Information? All right . . .”

“I need you to find out everything you can about the Zelig and his spawn.”

“The Zelig . . .?” Willis repeated, his voice betraying his surprise at the order. “A-a-all right . . .”

Tapping his claws against the thickly lacquered desktop, Alastair rumbled a throaty sound of acknowledgement. “And I _do_ mean everything. Are we clear?”

“Absolutely,” Willis agreed quickly. “The Zelig . . . information on his lot is difficult to come by—almost classified . . .”

“Of course it is,” Alastair scoffed, nostrils flaring slightly at the mere thought of the unassuming tai-youkai. Though he hadn’t had the opportunity to deal with him first-hand, the things he had heard over the years were enough to leave him seething in resentment. Too kind, too soft, too weak to have ever become tai-youkai, the only reason the Zelig bore the title was because of the capricious hand of fate—a privileged birthright that wasn’t bestowed upon him because of any real measure of strength. Long to think and slow to act, he was, and that would eventually lead to his downfall, wouldn’t it? “You have connections, Willis. I highly suggest you call in a few favors.”

Willis uttered a half-hearted laugh, as though he didn’t believe that it would be as simple as Alastair made it sound. “No problem.”

“Good, good . . . don’t let me down, Willis,” Alastair saw fit to warn him. “I do not like it when people let me down . . .”

“Yes . . . o-of course,” Willis replied, his tone betraying the reluctance of his spirit. “W-when do you need this information?”

“I won’t saddle you with a time frame,” Alastair said, “but do not keep me waiting.”

Tapping the flashing button on the telephone to end the call, Alastair turned away with a flourish and strode over to the row of windows that overlooked the darkened forest. The glow on the horizon drew his attention, and he narrowed his gaze, despising the arrogance of the human world. They spread like vermin, running rampant over the land and laying waste to everything they touched in their search for convenience while perpetually patting each other on the back as they marveled at their own ingenuity.

‘ _Ignorant creatures_ ,’ he scoffed, his lip curling back to reveal a razor-sharp fang. Their time was coming, wasn’t it, and along with them . . .

‘ _Do not fail me, Willis_ ,’ he thought as he turned his back on the window. ‘ _If you fail me_ . . .’

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Smashing his hand over his nose and mouth, Griffin stomped up the stairs and slapped the door open with a loud thump. Blinking against the tears that stung his eyes, he waved his free hand in a vain effort to dispel the haze of smoke that was filtering out of the kitchen—out of the oven. With an irritated grunt, he hurried into the room and jerked the oven door open, coughing despite himself as a cloud of acrid smoke engulfed him. The oven temperature was set as high as it would go—better than five hundred degrees—and while he wasn’t sure exactly how long the food had been in the oven, he didn’t have to be brilliant to know that whatever was in there had been cooking for far, far too long . . .

They used to be pork chops, or so Griffin figured, as he reached for a towel and jerked the roasting pan out of the oven. He started to set it on top of the stove but thought better of it since the charcoaled meat absolutely reeked. Worse, the pepper that Isabelle had applied a little too liberally was exacerbating the smoke. He’d never realized that pepper could burn, but he certainly did now, and it was going to kill him, he was certain . . .

‘ _What in the world was she thinking?_ ’ he fumed, stomping toward the back door and wondering absently if she hadn’t managed to ruin the roasting pan. Jerking open the back door, he strode out onto the porch, dropping the pan onto the small table beside the chair where he usually sat to watch the squirrels. It sizzled when it touched the trace moisture on the wood.

Heaving a sigh, he dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face, wrinkling his nose and wincing at the stench of burning pork chops that seemed to be caught in his nasal passages. One thing was certain: he couldn’t stand to stay in the house with that reek. He’d smelled it all the way in the basement, which was the reason he’d been galvanized into action.

‘ _Serves you right, you coward_ ,’ his youkai pointed out indelicately.

‘ _What serves me right?_ ’ he grumbled, shaking his head slowly as he stared at the steam still rising off the charred meat. ‘ _I’m not a coward_ . . .’

‘ _Oh, yes, you are. You know damn well that she’s been a little preoccupied the last couple of days, and you know why, too_.’

Griffin snorted, stuffing his handkerchief into his pocket as he shuffled back inside. ‘ _Dunno what you’re talking about_ ,’ he countered.

‘ _Right, you don’t. It’s because of you, you know. Do you honestly think that she hasn’t noticed that you’re avoiding her lately? And before you say you aren’t, you might as well know that I don’t believe you, so save your breath._ ’

Griffin snorted again but didn’t bother trying to rebuff his youkai, either. It didn’t matter what sort of face he tried to put on it, even he knew that Isabelle was far too perceptive not to have noticed it, too.

He’d known at the time that kissing her was a huge mistake. Hell, he’d known that dancing with her was a huge mistake, hadn’t he? He still didn’t understand exactly why he’d given in. Given in? He grimaced. ‘ _All right_ ,’ he reluctantly allowed, ‘ _so it_ was _my idea_ . . .’

He just hadn’t quite realized how badly he’d regret it later.

If he thought about that kiss once during the course of a day, he’d thought about that kiss a thousand times or more. She’d been entirely too accepting of him; entirely too welcoming, and as much as he hated to admit it, he’d noticed that her body had _fit_ , if that made any sense. Her curves had melded against his so perfectly that it was almost like she’d been carved out just for him—only for him—and as much as that thought had frightened him, he had to admit that it had thrilled him, too.

But even with thoughts like those plaguing him during the daylight hours, the nights were even worse. He’d been stupid enough to think that he could still look in on her at night; that he could sit beside her and watch over her and be unaffected by her mere proximity. He’d been wrong—very, very wrong. Watching her as she slept was torture, plain and simple. Every little breath she drew, every flutter of her eyelids as she dreamed seemed to speak to him, to call to him, to pull him closer and closer than he dared to be. He’d caught himself coming way too close to kissing her, and yet it seemed out of his ability to get up and leave her.

So he’d forced himself to stop going to her in the night, and instead he stretched out on his bed—funny how it had never seemed so lonely before—and willed himself to sleep. Too bad it hadn’t worked very often. It was the reason why he’d been in such a god-awful mood the last couple weeks—at least, that was the excuse he told himself. Lack of sleep was enough to make anyone miserable, wasn’t it? He simply couldn’t quite bring himself to consider any other reasons for it.

Stomping through the house with his hand over his mouth and nose once more, Griffin veered to the side and into the hallway. For a moment, he thought that maybe she’d decided to take a nap—rather stupid, really, when she was cooking. But her bedroom door was wide open, and he frowned as he scanned the neatly made bed that looked like she hadn’t touched it since she came home . . .

He didn’t have time to ponder that, though. The muffled but distinct sound of sloshing water registered in his ears, and with a snort, he wheeled around and stomped across the hall to thump on the bathroom door. “Isabelle,” he called, his voice muted by the hand that he refused to lower. The stench wasn’t quite as bad here, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

“Hmm?”

He rolled his eyes and snorted again since she didn’t sound at all as though she realized that she’d damn near burned down his house. “You burned dinner,” he complained.

“What’s that?” she called.

He could hear a rush of water—she must have sat up. “Dinner’s burnt,” he called back, raising his voice enough to be heard through the thick door.

“I’ll check it in a minute,” she replied.

“I already got it,” he grouched, smashing the heel of his free hand over his good eye to staunch the watering. “Get out here, will you?”

“What?”

He growled under his breath, unable to make up his mind whether he thought she was just being stubborn or if he believed that she really couldn’t hear him. “I said, ‘get out here’,” he said, raising his voice a little bit more.

“I can’t hear you,” she called back. “Your voice is all muffled.”

“Would you just hurry up?” he growled, letting his hand drop, his exasperation evident in his tone.

That worked well enough. He heard a loud slosh as she got out of the tub, and he sighed, rubbing his temples as the dull throbbing behind his eyes escalated into an incessant ache. Stepping back, he slumped against the wall to wait.

He didn’t have to wait long. Isabelle threw the bathroom door open and stomped into the hallway, wrapped in nothing but a towel with water streaming down her neck and shoulders from the length of her hair. She stopped short, eyes flaring wide as she smashed her hands over her mouth and nose in much the same fashion as Griffin had earlier.

And Griffin? Well, he could only stare. One end of the towel was tucked snugly in to hold the scrap in place, but the swell of her breasts over that was entirely too visible. Smelling of the lightly floral soap she favored with her damp hair spilling over her shoulders, dripping water that disappeared into the edge of the towel, he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could only stare as her cheeks pinked and as she slowly shook her head. “Oh, no,” she murmured.

Griffin swallowed—hard. “W-w-wh . . . where are your _clothes?_ ” he blurted. He could feel the blood rushing to his face as he struggled in vain to drag his eyes off her.

“Ohh . . .” she groaned, carting around and dashing through the house toward the kitchen, coughing as the smoke assailed her, too.

Griffin squeezed his eyes closed, willing the unwelcome image of her from his mind. It didn’t work. Somehow in the course of a few seconds, the sight of her had been burned into his brain, and he couldn’t help but sigh.

If he wasn’t sure before, he was absolutely certain now. He was a damned man—a _cursed_ man. There wasn’t any other way to explain it, and Isabelle . . . she was going to be the judge, the jury, and his executioner, wasn’t she?

‘ _Well, if you’ve gotta go, she is one hell of a way to do it_ . . .’

Griffin grimaced and pushed himself away from the wall, heading in the opposite direction to start opening windows to air the place out. ‘ _That’s not even remotely funny_.’

His youkai laughed. ‘ _I never said it was_.’

‘ _No_ ,’ Griffin agreed, shoving the window in his bedroom open and slowly shaking his head. ‘ _But you thought it_.’

‘ _Yeah . . . yeah, I did_ . . .’

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
>  _Wet … Isabelle … towel_ …


	39. The Countdown

Isabelle stomped out of the kitchen, pulling the front of her sweater together to block out the prevalent chill in the air and balancing a mug of tea in her hand as she tried in vain to make sense of Griffin’s obvious irritation. After having spent an hour or so sitting in a local restaurant since neither one of them had felt like staying in the house while it aired out, she was dangerously close to losing her temper as she glowered at the bear-youkai’s broad back. “Here,” she said, careful to keep her voice steady even as she watched him reach for the basement doorknob.

He grunted and paused long enough to dig the key out of his pocket.

“I made you a cup of tea,” she informed him. “The least you could do is drink it with me.”

“I’m busy,” he grumbled, jamming the old-fashioned key into the keyhole and turning it.

“Griffin, please . . . What’s all this about?” she asked in a reasonable tone.

“Why don’t you go ask one of your new _friends?_ They gave you their phone numbers, didn’t they?”

Narrowing her eyes on him, she was hard-pressed not to growl in complete exasperation. “And you saw me leave them on the table.”

He snorted. “I also saw you fiddling with your cell. You programmed the numbers in, didn’t you?”

‘ _One . . . two . . . three_ . . .’ she counted off in her head. “No, I didn’t.”

“Right.”

‘. . . _Four . . . five . . . six_ . . .’ She heaved a sigh. “You’re being ridiculous,” she pointed out with a scowl.

“Am I?”

“Griffin—”

“Don’t you mean, ‘Dad’?”

She couldn’t quite contain the frustrated growl that slipped from her. “No, I don’t, and _you’re_ the one who said yes.”

He snorted again and jiggled the handle. It must not have unlocked properly because it didn’t budge.

‘ _This is really, really stupid_ ,’ she thought with an inward snort of her own. One of the men who had stopped by the table ‘just to say hi’ had rather rudely asked her if she was out to dinner with her father, and Griffin, for reasons that she’d never understand, had said ‘yes’ before she’d been able to tell the man exactly what she’d thought of that. Griffin didn’t look old enough to be her father, for God’s sake. True, the guy had been the third one to approach the table, but she certainly hadn’t done a thing to entice them, damn it, and had actually been quite irritated that they’d be rude enough to try to hit on her when it should have been obvious that she was having dinner with someone already.

“Stay here and talk to me, will you?” she demanded, unable to keep the mulish tone out of her voice.

He paused long enough to glower at her before stabbing the key into the lock once more and giving it a vicious twist. “Leave me alone, Isabelle,” he muttered.

“No, I won’t!” she snapped, grabbing his arm to stop him before he could open the door. “What is the matter with you? I—”

She gasped as he jerked his arm out of her grasp, throwing it up in the air as if to warn her off. His hand caught her arm and the tea mug, sending it crashing to the floor as hot liquid splashed all over the both of them. She jumped back in time to avoid most of it, but Griffin wasn’t as quick, hissing sharply as he glowered down at her. “Great; great,” he growled.

Heaving a sigh, she hurried back to the kitchen, swiping up the first towel she laid hands on before carting around and striding through the dining room to clean up the mess on the floor. He’d stepped away from the basement door, at least, though he still looked irritated as all hell while he swatted at the tea stains on his shirt and pants. She could feel the start of a massive migraine setting in just behind her eyes as she stooped over to mop up the tea.

It didn’t take long, and she grimaced at the broken bits of mug scattered on the wooden floor, and she started to stand up once more, reaching for the doorknob to help her to her feet.

The knob turned as she tugged on it, and she nearly toppled down the stairs when it swung open. She blinked in surprise but didn’t have time to think on it as Griffin’s arm snaked around her waist and roughly jerked her back.

“Thank—” she began, clutching at her chest to slow her pounding heartbeat, her relief a palpable thing as she swallowed down the lump of late fear at almost falling.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed, wrenching her around to face him. Face contorted in an almost violent sort of way, he narrowed his eyes on her as his youki spiked angrily.

“Wh—I—”

“You what?” he demanded.

She winced when he shook her, gritted her teeth together to keep them from rattling with the movement. “I didn’t . . . mean . . . to,” she whispered.

“Of _course_ you didn’t,” he scoffed, shaking his head furiously to cut her off, the malevolence in the air roiling and thick, cloying at her, choking her, holding her motionless, and she could only stare. “The _one_ thing I asked you _not_ to do was try to go down to the basement,” he snarled, ignoring her lame protests entirely in the face of his rage, “and you can’t even do that! My God, you have absolutely no decency, do you? No, you don’t! Whatever you want, right, Isabelle? Whatever you want, and who gives a damn about anyone other than you?”

Retreating a step—she couldn’t help it—she shook her head, unable to find any words at all. His eyes glowed—burned—with an intensity that she’d never seen before; an expression of absolute revulsion writ in the depths of his gaze. As much as she wanted, she couldn’t help staring at him, unable to look away and feeling like a deer caught in the headlights. Shaking her head against the anger in his words—maybe she was trying to buffer herself against his tirade—she bit off a little cry that tried to slip from her. “Griffin, please, I—”

“Save it, Isabelle! I don’t give a damn!” he bellowed, jerking on her arm to silence her. “You stroll into my life, turn everything upside down, do what you want, whenever you want, wherever you want to do it, and you never, ever take into consideration the fact that _I don’t want you here!_ ”

“I didn’t—I never—”

The tendons in his throat strained, his face a deep shade of crimson, looking entirely different from the gentle man that she had come to know and care about. In the back of her mind, a voice whispered to her that he was just lashing out. It didn’t stop the tears from stinging the back of her eyes as his tirade continued. “Damn right, you never! Now I’m telling you for the last time: _just leave me the hell alone!_ ”

He let go of her so abruptly that she stumbled back and nearly fell. Latching onto the corner of the bureau, she steadied herself, her hands trembling as she sank her teeth into the soft flesh of her cheek to keep the tears in check. Swallowing hard, she shook her head and shuffled backward in retreat. “I’m sorry,” she whispered—choked out, actually—as she wheeled around on her heel and ran . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“Tell me again: why are we packing at ten o’clock at night?” Gavin asked as Jillian folded a shirt and placed it in the open suitcase.

She shot him a bright smile and reached for another shirt. “Because we’re leaving tomorrow, “she reminded him.

“Tomorrow _night_ ,” he corrected with a shake of his head.

“All the same, it’s poor form to procrastinate,” she insisted, giving his ponytail a playful yank.

Chuckling softly, he rolled his eyes but strode over to the drawers as she waved her hands in that general direction. “There’s nothing wrong with procrastination,” he insisted, pulling open the drawer and picking up a stack of underpants.

“Besides, we have a ton of things we have to do tomorrow before we leave,” she pointed out. “We have go to the bank to pick up the traveler’s checks, stop by the post office to have them hold the mail—”

He caught her fingers—she was counting off the mental list—in his hand and quickly kissed her knuckles. “I stopped at the bank at lunch time and picked up the traveler’s checks, and I took care of the mail online earlier, too.”

She giggled and threw herself into his arms, hugging him tight. “You’re so organized, Gavvie!” she gushed.

“The only thing we have to do tomorrow is stop by Evan’s house.”

“Evan’s house? Why?”

“I told him he could borrow _Digital Thunder Racing_ while we’re gone.”

She wrinkled her nose at the mention of the video game but laughed, giving him a quick squeeze before turning back to her task of packing. “Organized _and_ thoughtful,” she teased.

“Yeah,” he agreed with a sigh, arching his back and thrusting his fists into the air as he stretched and yawned. “I’ll regret it; I just know it. He’ll learn the game forward and backward and get better at it than I am.”

“Evan will never be better than my Gavvie,” she said, arching an eyebrow and fluttering her eyelashes.

Gavin grunted but couldn’t help the blush that rose to stain his cheeks. He still hadn’t gotten used to Jillian’s teasing . . . “Isn’t he supposed to go back out on tour soon?” he asked, changing the subject before she could say anything else to deepen his flush.

“Hmm,” she pondered, screwing up her face in a thoughtful scowl as she considered his question. “I think he said that the Asian tour was over and that they were going back out in a couple weeks.”

“Where to this time?”

“The States for a quick tour and then on to Europe.”

Gavin sighed and shook his head. As much as he enjoyed his quiet life with Jillian—at least, it was quiet most of the time—he had a hard time understanding how Evan seemed to thrive on the chaos of his chosen profession. He’d said once that nothing beat the adrenaline he felt from a crowd of people who were all ‘digging his groove’. Gavin hadn’t really comprehended that, either, but if it made Evan happy, then it didn’t really matter . . .

“Don’t let me forget to pack the gift I bought for Dr. Avis,” Jillian said suddenly, whirling around to poke a finger in the middle of Gavin’s chest.

He blinked at his mate’s delicate hand and arched an eyebrow. “All right,” he agreed slowly.

She smiled again—amazing how she could change expressions in the blink of an eye. “You know, we should have left weeks ago,” she muttered then sighed since it couldn’t be helped now.

“You had that photo shoot, remember?”

She wrinkled her nose and carefully smoothed a clean pillowcase over the contents of the suitcase. She insisted that it helped to keep the clothes in place, and she’d done it the entire time that Gavin had known her. “Oh, that!” she scoffed, pushing down on the lid of the suitcase with all of her weight. The suitcase still didn’t close completely.

Gavin chuckled. She also believed in stuffing as much as she possibly could into the suitcases so that nothing would shift around—a moot point when the pillowcase was supposed to circumvent that, in the first place. “Sit on it, Jilli, and I’ll get the latches.”

She sat on the suitcase and hopped a couple of times for good measure. Even with her weight, the suitcase barely closed. Pressing his thumb against the sensor in the locking mechanism, he waited until it beeped twice before picking Jillian up and setting her on the floor again. She sighed, her normal ebullience waning as she twisted her fingers together in a decidedly nervous sort of way and wandered over to the window.

“You going to tell me what you’re thinking about?” he prodded gently.

Jillian forced a smile and shook her head. “It’s nothing,” she insisted, rubbing her forearms as though she were cold.

“That’s not an ‘it’s nothing’ look,” he informed her with a frown.

She let out a deep breath and turned away from the window, shuffling over to him and leaning on his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her. “It’s just . . . I have so many questions; you know? So many things . . . stupid things, really . . .”

“I doubt they’re stupid,” he said gently.

She sighed. “Maybe not . . .”

Kissing her forehead, he cuddled with her for a minute, trying to reassure her that she wasn’t being ridiculous. “Like what?”

“Like . . . Like what was my mother’s favorite color . . . or her favorite song . . .? Did she sing on key? Just . . .” she sighed again. “Just _everything_.”

Gavin frowned, understanding what Jillian was trying to say. He knew that she adored her parents—Gin and Cain—more than anything else, and yet there would always be a part of her that wondered. It was that part of her that felt compelled to speak with Dr. Avis, even knowing that he had ordered Eli to kidnap her just a few months ago. Though she had rarely expressed feelings of inadequacy regarding the idea that she had been adopted, Gavin knew better than anyone that the carefree façade she wore hid so very much of her true heart.

“You can ask him all that stuff,” Gavin said, his voice soft in the quiet.

“I can, can’t I?” she replied, her smile taking on a brilliance that was closer to the one he knew and adored.

He sighed and shrugged but squeezed her tight for a moment before letting go and stepping away. “Let’s finish packing, all right?”

Jillian giggled and nodded before scurrying off to the bathroom to gather some of the toiletries they’d need on their trip.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

‘ _What the hell was that?_ ’

Griffin snorted and flexed his fingers as he fought to calm down before gave into the temptation to slam his fist into the wall. Even with her out of his sight, his anger wasn’t abating. No, if anything it was growing— _festering_ —an ugly thing that seethed through him: anger directed at everything and everyone, from Isabelle to the bastards at the restaurant who hadn’t had the decency to leave Isabelle alone to the very images that were entirely too real in his mind, but most especially, anger—no, it was contempt—with himself . . .

‘ _She’s not the problem, Griffin_ ,’ his youkai pointed out reasonably in a soothing tone that Griffin over time had come to despise. As though his very being feared the monster that he could be, that tone—that voice . . . it was enough to drive him mad.

‘ _She is_ ,’ he argued stubbornly, knowing deep down that his youkai was right but ignoring the truth of it, at least for the moment. It was easier to be angry, wasn’t it? Easier to lash out and hurt something so fragile and wonderful, because . . . because the idea of letting down his defenses any more than he already had . . .

‘ _If you were honest with yourself, you’d admit it, you know_.’

Griffin snorted and shook his head, taking a step toward the windows only to be brought up short at the sharp stabbing pain that erupted in his foot as a bit of baked clay dug into the tender skin of his instep. Shifting his glower to the floor, he blinked then grimaced at the scattered remains of his favorite mug. An unsettling sense of horror crept up his spine, locked around his brain, and for the briefest of moments, he could hear the screams, feel the heat of inescapable flames, and he smashed his fist against his lips as an insular thought whispered to him. ‘ _Cursed . . . ruin . . . everything you touch will forever be left in bits and pieces to be swept away with the wind_ . . .’

Shuffling his feet backward, he felt himself recoiling, unable to deal with the broken cup any more than he’d ever been able to deal with anything else as a second thought—just as transient—broke through the haze. ‘ _Clean it up, Griffin_ ,’ it said. ‘ _You still have a chance to fix it_ . . .’

‘ _Fix . . . it . . .?_ ’

He didn’t remember fetching the broom and dustpan; couldn’t recall sweeping the bits and pieces together. The harsh whisper of the pieces falling into the trash can broke him out of his reverie, and he sighed. Memories and half-formed thoughts ran through his head in a jumble of incoherence that all seemed to begin and end with Isabelle. He was too tired, too weary. Days and nights spent dwelling on that one moment in time, visions of her smiling at him—only at him . . . the feel of her body against his as they shuffled their feet in time to the music . . . and the consuming knowledge that the thing that he didn’t dare admit that he wanted more than anything really did look as ridiculous from the outside as he had known it would . . .

He’d realized it all too well at dinner, hadn’t he? Sitting there at that table with her as she was approached by men who had seemed so much closer to everything that a woman like her needed, it had been clear to him, hadn’t it? As much as he tried to deny it, he knew deep down that somewhere along the line, he’d started to hope; had dared to think that maybe, just maybe . . .

‘ _It . . . It’s better this way . . . Isn’t it . . .?_ ’

‘ _Do you honestly believe that?_ ’ his youkai asked though not unkindly.

Griffin didn’t answer as he put away the broom and dustpan, as he turned and stared out the window at the solitary star shining through the clouds covering the sky. It looked lonely, didn’t it? Lonely and a little sad . . .

He closed his eyes, let his head fall back with a heavy sigh. It was better this way, at least for her. It was better if she never learned the truth, wasn’t it? For her . . .

Unfortunately, he couldn’t stave back the pang of selfishness, the crazy need to keep her near for as long as she wanted to be, and it was that need that made him move, that thought that carried him through the house and down the hallway to stand outside the closed bedroom door . . .

And it hurt like hell to smell her tears, to know damn well that he was the cause of those. Not even a breath of sound came from the other side, but he didn’t have to hear her to smell them, either. Swallowing hard, he reached for the handle. The door opened without a sound. Isabelle was curled into the window seat staring outside—was she seeing anything at all? He couldn’t see her face through the bronze sheet of her hair, but that didn’t interest him at that moment. His attention was focused on the open suitcase lying on her bed . . .

Tamping down the rise of panic that surged through him, he cleared his throat to let her know that he was there. She gasped and nearly fell as she stumbled to her feet, dashing a nimble hand over her eyes, her silhouette golden in the wan light of the bedroom. “I-I was . . . just . . .”

She trailed off, turning abruptly to grab clothes out of the open dresser drawer. Griffin winced, his feet moving before he could think about what he was doing. Taking the clothes from her hands, he stuffed them back into the drawer and shook his head. “Y-You can’t leave,” he blurted, casting about for some reason that she might believe. “It’s . . . It’s still dangerous. The research—”

“No, you’re right,” she said with a pathetic sounding sniffle. “I’m sorry . . .”

Somehow her apology made him feel just that much worse. He didn’t want her to be sorry, damn it . . . He didn’t want that at all . . . Opening and closing his mouth a few times, he scowled at the half-formed thoughts that just didn’t say nearly enough. There had to be a way to make her understand—something that he could do to show her that he . . . that he was sorrier than she’d ever know . . .

“Griffin, no . . .” she said softly, the sadness in her eyes a painful thing for him to see. “Everything you said . . . you were right.”

“Y-Y-You’re leaking again,” he stammered, clumsily running his thumb along the rise of her cheek, wincing at the moisture that ran down his finger in a slow ribbon. “I . . .” He licked his lips and ground his teeth together. “Come with me.”

Shaking her head as confusion brightened her gaze, she sniffled and blinked quickly, as though struggling to deny the tears that were glossing over her eyes. “But—”

He reached for her hand and shook his head stubbornly. “I . . . I want you to see,” he muttered.

Her resistance held fast for a painfully slow moment, but slowly—so slowly—she clasped his hand in return and let him lead her out of the room.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _… What …?_


	40. Rising Gale

“You know, you’re _horrible_ for a girl’s ego.”

Gunnar blinked and pasted on a tepid smile as he met Carolyn Stieger’s gaze. Tucking a long strand of ash-blonde hair behind her ear, she heaved a melodramatic sigh and pursed her ruby-red lips in a petulant little pout calculated to get under a man’s skin. “Am I?” he asked mildly.

She laughed softly, abandoning the pretense of being upset with him since they both knew that a pretense was all it was. “I won’t ask what’s on your mind so long as you tell me it wasn’t another woman,” she teased.

He chuckled. “And if I said it was?”

She sighed again and tried to look stern—an expression that was completely lost when she broke into a bright smile—the same smile that had earned her spots on the covers of the best selling fashion magazines in the world. “As long as she isn’t the one on your mind while we’re having sex, then I suppose I can live with it.”

“What makes you think that I’d have someone else on my mind at a time like that?” he parried.

“I’d _hope_ you wouldn’t,” she allowed, dabbing at her lips with the crisp beige napkin before dropping it onto the plate of food that she’d barely touched.

“How was your trip to Guam?” he asked, effectively changing the subject.

Carolyn shrugged and nodded across the room at the waiter. “It was nice enough,” she allowed. “I didn’t have time to get out very much, though. I swear RJ was a slave driver in a past life . . .”

Gunnar shook his head. “You poor thing,” he commiserated.

“But he _is_ the best in the business, as far as photographers go,” she went on, “so at least the end result will be worth it.”

“I’m sure,” Gunnar demurred, his attention slipping away once more. She paused long enough to order a glass of wine before launching into a story of her adventures in Guam. All he had to do was nod every now and again and look like he was paying attention.

It wasn’t as though he thought Carolyn boring—far from it, in fact. The only child of pharmaceutical tycoon Grant Stieger and Karyn Rice-Stieger, the retired president of Medialome Technologies, Carolyn was a model with a PhD in psychology, and he had to admit that he enjoyed spending time with her. She loved a good debate—anything from the state of affairs of the United States government to the theory behind many of the laws that dictated youkai policy, she was a good mix of passionate and intelligent when defending her beliefs while also being able to laugh and admit if she was proven wrong . . . Refreshing, really, especially for a woman—smart, witty, self-reliant, and damn good in bed . . . He’d thought that she’d be a good distraction while he was in the city, which was why he’d called her in the first place.

He should have known better.

He just couldn’t stop thinking about the investigations. He was waist-deep in the search for a youkai who had committed a few murders about ten years ago who had reportedly surfaced near Santa Fe, New Mexico recently, and when he wasn’t concentrating on that case, then he was plodding through all manner of legends that Myrna thought were the most likely to pertain to Griffin Marin and his hidden past. Thus far, he hadn’t been able to find much information in either case, and it was enough to frustrate the hell out of him, and then he’d been sidled with the task of taking care of some things in the New York office, to boot . . .

There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Marin was definitely hiding something, and the more he dug, the more convinced he was that whatever the bear-youkai was hiding, it was something really, really big. It stood to reason, didn’t it? An innocent man did not go to the lengths that Marin had in order to cover up his past . . .

As near as they could tell from the weeks spent examining every viable option, Marin had spent a century or better in and around the Canadian region though it seemed that he had ventured further south periodically, too, if the legends held any credence. Though they rarely had any sort of concrete dates to them, they were simple enough to track back to certain spans of time. The first stories seemed to place him around Toronto sometime during the eighteenth century though pinning down a year was vague, at best. Those tales ran the gamut between the ‘scarred angel’ who had saved a group of children from certain doom to a beast—a monster, they called him—who slaughtered children when they misbehaved. Gunnar would have discounted the last tale except for the mention of a ‘scarred bear with glowing red eyes’.

What grated on his nerves the most was the feeling of complete frustration every time a potential lead ended up nowhere. For a man used to getting results, it was almost more than he could stand . . .

“Hmm, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” Carolyn’s voice cut through his reverie.

Gunnar blinked and shot her a smile that was as close to apologetic as he could muster. “You were regaling me with stories of your assignment,” he replied.

She rolled her eyes but laughed, obviously amused by his answer. “Maybe you’d feel better if you talked about whatever is sidetracking you? I might not have a clue about what’s bothering you, but sometimes it helps just to say it out loud, don’t you think?”

“Ah, the psychiatrist rears her head,” he quipped in a somewhat dry tone.

She shook her head. “No, but I do hope that you would consider me a friend, at least on some level.”

“Friend? I suppose . . .” He sighed and shook his head, leaning back in his chair as he stared at Carolyn. True enough, she was damn good at keeping things private—a plus, considering that she led a fairly high-profile life. He’d dated her when she was around or when his work took him to New York City quite a few times in the last six months, and he knew well enough that anything he said to her would stay between the two of them, and she had a point, in a roundabout way: sometimes it was easier to see things if you stated them out loud. Still, it grated on his nerves, the idea that he was being outwitted by Griffin Marin, and that was a feeling that he would not abide.

“I’m chasing a shadow, or so it would seem,” Gunnar muttered so that his voice wouldn’t carry in the upscale restaurant.

Being youkai had its advantages, he supposed. She heard him just fine if the slight quirking of her eyebrows meant anything at all. “Shadows,” she repeated, the vaguest hint of a smile touching her lips, illuminating the depths of her pale green eyes. “Sounds mysterious.”

“Not nearly as mysterious as it is troublesome,” he ventured, shaking his head once more in abject disgust.

“Hmm . . . I take it this has something to do with your job?”

“Not at all,” he said mildly, tapping a tapered claw against the highly lacquered table.

She looked confused but didn’t comment. He made a point of not talking about his work with anyone other than family, and only selected family, at that. Even then, she never asked too many questions—another thing that Gunnar could appreciate about the woman.

“My cousin’s boyfriend, actually. In fact, she moved in with the guy without knowing a damn thing about him—at least about his past.”

She laughed softly, taking a moment to sip her wine. “You’re that concerned for your cousin’s well-being? That’s touching, Gunnar—very touching. Not entirely surprising, but touching, nonetheless.”

He grunted at the teasing in Carolyn’s tone. “Yes, well, Izzy has a habit of ignoring the modicum of common sense that she was allotted at birth.”

“Ouch. Are you being a bit harsh?”

He snorted, pinning Carolyn with a droll stare. “Not at all,” he said rather caustically. “In any case, she’s positive that this . . . _man_ . . . is a saint on earth.”

“A saint on earth? That’s a pretty tall order.”

“Exactly.”

She pondered his words, pursing her lips as she shifted her gaze out the huge plate glass window that overlooked Central Park. “And you’re convinced that there is some deep, dark secret that this guy is keeping from her?”

“Something like that.”

He could tell from the look on her face that she thought that maybe he was being a bit obsessive even if she didn’t flat out say as much.

“ _The guy_ , as you so blithely put it, has gone to extraordinary lengths to bury his past,” Gunnar went on, measuring his words carefully. “No one goes through that much trouble unless he has something to hide.”

Carolyn smiled. “You make him sound like the devil, personified. Who is he? Granted, I’m sure I don’t know him, but . . .”

Gunnar shook his head and heaved a frustrated sigh—he’d been doing that a lot of late. “Marin,” he said. “Griffin Marin . . . he’s a professor at the University of Maine.”

“Never heard of him,” she admitted.

“I didn’t assume you had.”

“Well, I have very little doubt in my mind that you’ll find out whatever it is. You’re nothing if not resourceful, Gunnar.”

“Keh,” he snorted. “One would think that it’d be a bit easier to find information on a scarred bear-youkai,” he muttered, more to himself than to his dinner companion. “He’s old, damn it. It’s impossible in this day and age to cover your tracks that thoroughly . . .”

“Scarred . . .?” Carolyn cut in with a shake of her head.

Gunnar froze, chin snapping up at the strange hitch in her voice. Narrowing his eyes speculatively, he leaned forward and tilted his head to the side. “ _Do_ you know him?”

She shook her head again, a thoughtful scowl marring her brow. “Well, no,” she admitted then waved a hand. “Not personally, anyway, but . . .”

“But?” he prompted when she trailed off.

“It’s just . . .” she wrinkled her nose as her cheeks pinked slightly, as though she believed that Gunnar was going to think that what she was about to say was absolutely ridiculous. “My mother used to tell me this story,” she said slowly, haltingly.

“A story,” he echoed but didn’t try to stop her. “Go on.”

She rolled her eyes and forced a smile that was much brighter than it should have been. Offering a nervous sort of laugh before she spoke again, she bit her lip and seemed to be trying to figure out where to start. “Well, she always said that when she was little, a group of kids got stuck in a cave. They went in there to explore from time to time. Anyway, she said she wasn’t sure how it happened but that the woods outside the entrance caught fire, and by the time they got back to the front of the cave, a couple of the burning trees had fallen to block the entrance.”

“There wasn’t another way out of the cave?”

She shook her head, staring at the wine in the glass for several seconds as though she were trying to remember exactly how the story unfolded. “No . . . Mom said there was a pond or something like that in the depths of the cave . . . anyway, they started to yell for help.”

“How old is your mother?”

“Not that she looks it, but she’s pretty old . . . She was born in 1783. Always said that things were so volatile back then that she and Dad decided to wait to have children . . .”

He nodded, understanding that sentiment well enough. It was one of the reasons that his grandparents had opted to wait to start their own family, as well. “You’re right; she doesn’t look it,” he agreed instead.

Carolyn cocked her head to the side, regarding him with a certain measure of curiosity then snapped her fingers, her eyes lighting in obvious understanding. “That’s right . . . Medialome did business with Inutaisho Industries, didn’t they?”

He nodded. “I don’t recall meeting you on your parents’ visits.”

“They were hardly social calls,” she said mildly. “I was never interested in accompanying them on their business trips . . .”

“A damn shame,” he murmured.

She laughed. “Maybe it was.”

Gunnar held up a finger to stop their conversation while the waiter gathered their plates and slipped away again. “So tell me more of this story . . .?” he prompted after satisfying himself that they wouldn’t be overheard.

Carolyn shot him a smile and sighed. “Well, Mom said that the smoke in the cave was bad; one of the children had already passed out from it, and they all thought that they were going to die when this . . . voice . . . called out to them—there was a woman with them—she was in the cave gathering some plants that only grew in there, I think Mom said . . .” She trailed off and drew a deep breath before launching into the story once more. “That’s not really important, is it? Anyway, Mom said that he tried to move the trees but couldn’t. They were those huge ones? At least a hundred years old or so . . . She said that most of the children were passed out by then, but she remembered hearing this unearthly howl and a flash of yellowish light despite the smoke and flames—she said it was the eeriest thing she’d ever seen, if I recall . . . but the next thing she knew, this huge bear-paw splintered the logs and sent them flying. She said she thought she saw a flash of his red eyes but wasn’t certain since it all happened so fast . . . Mom got a few splinters from the flying debris in her eyes, too. It took her awhile to fully regain her sight, but she swore that the paw she saw was . . . was covered with scars and missing fur on the side where a human would have had a thumb . . .”

“The scarred bear youkai . . .” Gunnar murmured.

Carolyn shrugged and sipped her wine again. “So it would seem. I always just thought it was a silly little story that Mom told me before bed.”

Gunnar frowned, unsure whether or not he really ought to lend the tale any real credence. “Tell me something, Carolyn . . .”

She winked at him and smiled. “What do you want to know?”

Pursing his lips as he considered the tale he’d been told, he reached for his wine glass. “Where, exactly, did your mother grow up?”

She didn’t seem surprised by his question. “Up around Quebec, I believe . . .”

“Quebec,” Gunnar repeated. “I see . . .”

“That’s all I can remember,” she said with a shake of her head.

The smile that touched his lips was genuine if not a bit on the calculating side, and he took his time swirling the contents of his wine glass in an idle manner. “On the contrary, Carolyn,” he said as the smile widened just a little, “you’ve been more help than you realize . . .”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“Where are you taking me?” Isabelle asked, a hint of reluctance in her tone despite her best efforts to keep it in check.

He shook his head and kept walking, pulling her along behind him as he made his way down the hallway and through the living room into the dining room. Stopping before the basement door, he let go of her hand and stepped side. “Go ahead,” he mumbled, expression inscrutable as he gestured for her to enter.

She backed away, shaking her head, unable to fathom just what he had in mind. It was his sanctuary, wasn’t it? That was what he’d always maintained, and while she understood intuitively that it was the only way he could think of to tell her that he was sorry, and while she’d teased often enough that she wanted to know what he did while he was down there, for some reason she simply couldn’t bring herself to go, even if he did want to show her. “No . . .” she said softly, biting her lip and hoping that he could understand. “It’s your place, and I—”

“You wanted to know what I have down there, didn’t you?” he said.   Heaving a sigh, he shrugged in what she supposed he wanted to be an offhanded sort of way. Entirely forced, she could tell, and that was enough to bolster her resolve.

“I don’t need to,” she assured him, offering him a shaky smile as his words came back to her.

“ _The_ one _thing I asked you not to do was try to go down to the basement, and you can’t even do that! My God, you have absolutely no decency, do you? No, you don’t! Whatever you want, right, Isabelle? Whatever you want, and who gives a damn about anyone other than you?_ ”

He was right—entirely right. All she’d ever done was laugh at him time and again whenever he’d said that he didn’t want her in his life. All those times she’d been certain that he was just grumbling, but maybe he hadn’t been. She’d forced her way right into his home, for kami’s sake . . . If he hated her, it was no more than she deserved, and the last thing she wanted to do was to invade the last stronghold he had, even if he did maintain that he was all right with it . . .

“It’s fine,” he said, shuffling his feet and stuffing his hands into his pockets in a completely unsure sort of way. She couldn’t see his face. The way he hunched forward made his bangs fall like a curtain.

“Griffin—”

He stepped toward her and grasped her hand once more, pulling her along behind him as he stepped through the doorway onto the old stone steps. So old that they were worn down in the middle of each step, she wondered vaguely just how long Griffin had lived in the house. The stairs were surprisingly warm under her feet, she noted as he led the way. There was no light over the steps, but she the hazy glow of a single lamp was enough to keep her from feeling stifled in the darkness. Froofie lifted his muzzle off his paws and wuffed softly in greeting as Griffin stepped off the bottom rise, and he pushed Isabelle forward before planting himself in front of the staircase to bar the exit should she try to flee.

The fire in the hearth was banked and glowing—she hadn’t realized that there was another fireplace in the house, and he had left a lamp on though it was turned down, giving off a glow that was little more than nightlight intensity. It took her eyes a minute to adjust to the dimness, but she could smell the scent of cut wood. It seemed to permeate the entire room though it didn’t seem like a dusty sort of smell. No, it smelled very clean like fresh-cut wood—not the same smell that she associated with hunks of rough firewood, at all . . .

Blinking as the darkness seemed to recede just enough for her to be able to better discern her surroundings, she couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped her. The longest wall was lined with shelves—little more than rough wood planks bolted to what looked to be tree trunks with the bark stripped off, but on those shelves . . . The menagerie of animals carved out of wood were neatly arranged four or five rows deep, running the lengths of the shelves back into the deeper shadows in the corner where she couldn’t rightfully see them anymore. Taking an involuntary step toward them, she stopped suddenly, casting Griffin a nervous glance, as if to ask his permission.

He seemed to understand her unvoiced question, and while she couldn’t make out his features very well in the dimness, she did see him jerk his head once in a nod as he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

They were all different, she realized as she slowly shifted her gaze over the collection of animals. Though there were more than one of the various kinds of beasts, they were all posed differently, every single one captured in motion: a walking deer with the most delicate antlers—splendidly detailed antlers no thicker than a toothpick in places . . . birds in flight with wings spread wide . . . a fox with a fish hanging from his mouth as he ran . . . a bear standing on his hind legs with a paw stretching up above him like he was swatting at something that he just couldn’t reach . . . “These are amazing,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Griffin grunted and pulled his hands out of his pockets, shuffling toward the hulking stone fireplace on the far end of the room. “They’re just hunks of wood,” he mumbled.

Carefully lifting a beaver that seemed to be floating on his back, Isabelle peered over her shoulder with a censuring frown that Griffin didn’t see. “These are no more ‘just hunks of wood’ than my grandfather’s sculptures are ‘just hunks of marble’ or ‘just hunks of clay’,” she chided.

He didn’t answer her. He didn’t act like he’d heard her at all. Digging into a small wooden bin near the hearth, he tossed a few pieces onto the banked fire and jabbed at it with an iron poker.

Isabelle sighed softly and wandered toward him, her attention focused on the carving in her hands. The absolute devotion and care taken with the piece was enough to make her frown as what began as a fleeting thought took root in her mind. The look on Griffin’s face she’d unwrapped the carving of her dog solidified in her mind; his words, her words . . . and the significance she’d foolishly missed at the time . . .

“ _You can see it, you know_.”

“ _See what?_ ”

“ _The love . . . Whoever made this . . . He loved making it, didn’t he?_ ”

“ _Maybe he did_ . . .”

“ _You_ made it,” she said, her eyes flicking up to stare at him, an incredulity in her gaze, a sense of wonder that she hadn’t realized it sooner. The truth had been there all along. She’d seen the odd expression on his face; a sort of embarrassment, a hint of surprise that warred with the vaguest trace of reluctance whenever she’d asked about the woodwork . . .

“Made what?”

She shook her head, as though to tell him that he simply wasn’t going to get away with his elusive half-answers. “The dog you gave me for Christmas . . . You made it.”

He snorted but didn’t deny it, busying himself with nursing the fire back to life.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, her tone gentle despite the slight hitch caused by the telltale tightening in her throat as she knelt beside him.

“I did tell you,” he countered mildly, his voice giving away the embarrassment that he was trying so desperately to hide. “I said that it was—”

“—Just a hunk of wood,” she interrupted with a shake of her head. “But it isn’t; not to me. It never _was_.”

Tossing another handful of pieces onto the fire, he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, still stubbornly refusing to meet her gaze. “Don’t worry about it,” he mumbled, staring at his hands with a thorough frown on his face.

She opened her mouth to argue with him when she finally took note of what he held in his hand: the headless body of what looked to be a buffalo. Before she could make sense of it, he tossed it onto the fire, too. She reached out to stop him, but it was too late. “What are you doing?” she asked, staying his hand with hers.

He blinked and shot her an inscrutable look, his eyes veiled in shadows made all the starker in the warm glow of the burgeoning flames. “The scraps make good kindling,” he muttered, his tone indicating that she ought to have realized as much.

Narrowing her eyes on him, she shook her head. Pushing herself to her feet, she stepped over to the wooden box and winced inwardly as her suspicions were confirmed when she knelt down to get a better look. Filled with the odds and ends—broken bits of ruined sculptures—it didn’t take long for her to figure it out. She’d known it, hadn’t she? Despite what he wanted, his hands just weren’t capable of intricate work for very long. How long had he worked on some of those pieces, only to inadvertently snap them? Moreover, how hard had it been for him to create the beautifully rendered dog—her dog—that he’d given to her for Christmas? And in the end, he tossed the imperfect ones into a box to be burned regardless of how many hours he’d spent working on them . . .

“Don’t worry about it,” he said with a shrug. “It happens.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, and in the end, she supposed it didn’t really matter. For whatever reason, Griffin had come to accept what he considered to be his limitations, and while she wanted to tell him that he could probably get surgery to help with those issues, she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. Staring at his profile, she could see it: his understated pride, and even if he thought every now and then that the pain he endured could be eased, she knew deep down that he was far too proud to ever ask for that kind of help. It was one of the things that she loved about him: his indomitable spirit, his quiet integrity. To ask him to be any less than he was . . . she simply wouldn’t do it.

“It’s not polite to stare at people,” he said, his voice breaking through her reverie.

Isabelle felt her cheeks pink at the gentle reprimand, and she cleared her throat, extending the beaver to him in her open palm. “This is really cute,” she told him.

He grunted, and she thought that maybe she could discern the hint of a blush in his skin. “Just animals I’ve seen,” he remarked. “Nothing special; not really.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” she insisted, pushing herself to her feet and wandering back over to the shelf once more. She could hear Griffin moving behind her but didn’t turn to see what he was doing. “All of these? You’ve seen them all?”

“Mm, at some point or another.”

Setting the beaver back on the shelf, she carefully picked up a sculpture of an eagle. “Wow . . . These are extinct, right?”

He turned up the lamp before moving toward her, peering over her shoulder at the bird in her hands. “Yeah, that one is. The bald eagle . . . declared extinct about . . . forty years ago? Fifty years ago?” He uttered a terse sound that might have passed for a chuckle if it weren’t so dry, so empty. “Humans have a habit of killing things . . .”

She shook her head and sighed, concentrating on the bird in her hand. “And you actually saw a bald eagle?”

He nodded. “They used to be all over in some areas . . . If you sat and watched them, it kind of made you wish that you had wings, too . . .”

She blinked at the almost whimsical statement then smiled. “Wings, huh?”

He blushed and shook his head quickly, obviously embarrassed at having made such an observation, at least out loud. “Well, not me,” he amended. “Bears can’t have wings . . .”

“Do you ever carve people?” she asked, setting the eagle down and reaching for another statue.

“Uh . . . no . . .” he said. “Y-You want some tea?”

“Okay,” she agreed absently.

She heard him move off toward the stairs but didn’t stop examining Griffin’s work.

It was remarkable, really. She’d love to show her grandfather these sculptures—maybe even Ben Philips. Ben knew a lot about art. He was Cain’s business manager, after all, and he knew talent when he saw it . . .

With a sigh, Isabelle put the carving back and turned away from the shelf. She’d never do that, though, would she? At least, she wouldn’t without Griffin’s knowledge. Though he hadn’t said as much, she knew that these things were highly personal to him; moments of his life that he’d managed to capture in vivid detail . . .

Further down on the shelves were some other odds and ends: toy trains and cars, much more detailed than the standard type things that were a dime a dozen at toy stores that still carried the old fashioned wooden toys. Griffin’s were done in such detail that she didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d seen those before, too, and she had to wonder why he’d carve items like that.

‘ _He does work with children, Bitty_ ,’ her youkai pointed out reasonably. ‘ _Maybe he makes a few for them. It makes sense._ ’

It did, she had to admit. If there was nothing else she knew about him, she knew that he was a big softy when it came to children. She’d seen it, herself, hadn’t she? When she’d observed him with children, she’d realized that he was definitely the fathering type even if he had a gruff exterior and even if he had trouble saying exactly what he wanted to say sometimes . . .

In the light, she was better able to get a good look at this place—Griffin’s sanctuary. In one corner was a box full of what looked like furniture legs in various states of finish, and she shook her head. She should have known that he’d been the one to make most of the furniture in his house. Though she hadn’t thought of it at the time, it made perfect sense, didn’t it? He was a man who enjoyed the simpler aspects of living, and in many ways, he seemed to cling to what others might consider an almost archaic way of life. He never bought anything that he could make himself. She’d teased him one day when he’d donned a surgical mask and chemical proof gloves so that he could mix up a batch of soap, and she knew that the kiln in the back yard wasn’t just for looks, after all.

Yet those were some of the things that Isabelle respected the most about him. In his unassuming and oftentimes quiet way, he didn’t draw as much attention as some of the men she’d dated before, but she couldn’t say that was a bad thing, either. There was much to be said for leading a quiet life, wasn’t there?

Smiling wanly, she set the eagle back on the shelf and rubbed her arm as the softness of fur brushed against her ankle once, then twice. “So this is where you’ve been hiding,” she commented, hunkering down to rub the kitten’s downy head.

The kitten half-purred, half-mewed in answer, rising on her tiptoes to rub herself against Isabelle’s hand.

‘ _True enough_ ,’ Isabelle thought with a soft giggle. It seemed that both the cat as well as the dog preferred Griffin’s presence. ‘ _Perfectly understandable . . . so do I_ . . .’

The kitten caught sight of a wooden ball on the floor nearby and darted away, diving on the toy and rolling onto her back, kicking at the ball with her hind feet while holding onto it with her front paws. Isabelle cocked her head to the side, smiling gently as she watched the kitten play.

Something caught her attention, and she turned to get a better look. Back in the shadows of the corner of the bottom shelf stood a dollhouse.

Frowning as she crept closer, Isabelle pulled it out of the shadows. It wasn’t completely made of wood, as she had first thought, but was instead built using different mediums, from the small stones that had been mortared together to create a fireplace in the living room to the clay that he’d used to create certain fixtures like the sink in the kitchen and small bathroom. He’d meticulously carved the shingles that were secured to the roof, and he’d pieced together delicate bits of wood to create furniture for the dwelling, too. He’d carved a small wooden dog that was curled up near the fireplace, and he’d even carved intricate scrollwork along all the doorframes and windowsills.

Still, it wasn’t the absolute care that had so obviously gone into the creation of such a thing that captured her attention and held it. No, it was the one figurine standing in the middle of a small bedroom on the second story of the house. Isabelle’s hand trembled as she reached for the figure and gingerly lifted her from the dollhouse.

Hair blowing in an imaginary wind, she seemed to be dancing. Standing on the tiptoes of her right foot with her left leg bent and her arms outstretched, it was her face that captivated Isabelle. Caught in the middle of a fit of laughter, she seemed, with her round cheeks bringing to mind the images of the little cherubs she’d seen depicted in calendars and cutesy prints in lower-end art stores. She was just a child—maybe five or so—dancing happily in a floral-carved kimono . . .

“There are a few translation notes I need you to look at,” Griffin said as he stepped off the staircase, carefully balancing two mugs of tea and a plate of fruit and crackers.

Isabelle slowly turned to watch him as he set the mugs and plate on the stout end table beside the lamp. “I thought you said you don’t carve people,” she said softly, cradling the figurine in her hands.

His head shot up, and he cast her an inscrutable look, his eyes widening as he saw what she was holding. She wasn’t sure if it was her imagination or not, but she thought that he’d paled just a little as he closed the distance with three long strides and very carefully—almost reverently—took the figurine from her and knelt down in front of the doll house. “You asked if I _do_. You didn’t ask if I _have_.”

Frowning at the hint of belligerence underlying his answer, she bit her lip and watched as he placed the figurine in the dollhouse once more. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t realize . . .” Isabelle ventured, reaching for the smaller tea mug.

He stopped in the process of pushing the dollhouse back into the corner, shooting Isabelle an almost nervous sort of glance before resuming his task once more. “It’s all right,” he muttered quietly, sitting back on his haunches and letting his hands dangle between his knees.

“That’s an amazing dollhouse,” Isabelle went on between sips of the fragrant tea. “It seems like such a shame to hide it.”

“I’m not hiding it,” he contradicted, planting his fingertips on the floor to push himself to his feet. “It’s just . . . I-I-I don’t know why I made it . . .”

She didn’t say anything as he moved closer. Taking his mug of tea, he shuffled around the sofa and sat down, nodding in the direction of the papers stacked neatly on the low coffee table. He seemed eager to change the topic, and as much as she wished it were otherwise, she just didn’t have the heart to pry , especially when he’d let down his guard enough to allow her into a place as intensely personal as the basement seemed to be. “You, uh, want to take a look at these notes before I go on?”

“Griffin, you know . . . If you don’t want me down here, I’ll be happy to go back upstairs,” she offered, hoping that he didn’t take her statement in the wrong way.

“It’s all right,” he said though he didn’t sound completely certain. “Probably disappointed, right? No dead bodies after all.”

She smiled just a little at his attempt to make a joke.

He sighed. “She was my sister,” he said in a voice so low that she had to strain to hear him.

“She’s beautiful,” she replied softly.

“Yeah, she was,” he agreed, his sadness evident in his tone; in his demeanor. “She looked just like Hahaue.”

Blinking in surprise at the Japanese word he’d used, she wasn’t entirely certain why that had surprised her. After all, she’d realized that he’d been around for awhile, hadn’t she? ‘ _Hahaue_ ,’ she thought, pressing her lips together as she pondered. ‘ _Mother_ . . .’

“It was a long time ago,” he murmured.

She smiled, deliberately casting aside the desire to ask him more about his mother. “Who do you look like?”

He shrugged. “Chichiue . . . at least, that’s what . . . they said.”

“They?”

“Anyone who ever remarked on it.”

Isabelle wandered around the sofa to sit beside Griffin but didn’t speak. She could tell that it was difficult for him. She’d have to be stupid not to. He was scowling at his hands, having set the mug on the coffee table beside the research notes, but she could see the suspect brightness in his gaze; the pain he fought to hide from her. “You don’t sound like you believed them.”

Griffin snorted, shaking his head as his hair fell in a thick curtain, veiling him from her perusal, and he reached for a pencil, twisting it idly in his hands, as though he needed something to occupy himself. “I don’t think so.”

There was something else that Isabelle could sense but couldn’t grasp; something subtle—a hint of foreboding or maybe . . . “Everyone says I look just like Mama, and I suppose I have most of her coloring, sure, but I’ve always thought that my face was shaped more like Papa’s . . . Is that what you mean?”

The pencil snapped, and he jerked back, surprised by his own actions. “Uh, no,” he said then heaved a sigh, tossing the bits of pencil across the room and into the fire. “I . . . I don’t know what I mean.”

She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t press for more, either. Staring into the rollicking flames, his eyes were veiled by the mists of time, looking back over centuries and into a place that Isabelle couldn’t see. “It was yellow,” he said, swallowing hard and refusing to meet her questioning gaze. “Her . . . her kimono was yellow . . .”

‘ _The little girl who would forever be dancing_ ,’ Isabelle realized slowly. ‘ _His sister_ . . .’ Unsure what to say or if she should say anything at all, she nodded. “What . . . was her name . . .?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. The consuming sense of sadness that permeated the air took on a more savage bite, an angry undertone as the gravity in his expression gave way to a blackened scowl. “Kumiko,” he replied.

‘ _Kumiko_ . . . _Long-lived child_ . . .’ she thought with a grimace. “You . . . You came from Japan?”

“Didn’t all youkai originate in Japan?” he countered, his tone taking on an acerbic bite.

“There is that,” she allowed. “When did you come to America?”

He drained the tea from his mug before he shrugged. “I don’t remember. I sort of . . . wandered for awhile. Up through Asia . . . across the Bering Strait . . . Traveled around Canada . . . Didn’t really aim to come here, if that’s what you meant.”

“And you met Attean and Maria.”

He shot her a quizzical glance, as though he’d forgotten that she knew about the couple. He looked a little . . . scared? Why . . .? “No,” he said before she could make sense of the expression. “Not right away . . .”

“Sounds like you’ve been everywhere,” she commented, hoping to lighten the invisible shroud that seemed to have settled over the room.

Griffin grunted—a sound that reassured her much more than anything else ever could have. “I’ve been everywhere and nowhere in particular.”

She smiled gently, trying to reassure him that everything really was all right if he would just let it be. “But you’re somewhere now, aren’t you? You have a home: a place to belong . . . people who . . . who need you.”

His chin snapped up, and he looked at her as though he couldn’t quite credit her words. Startled, certainly, with a hint of guilt underlying it and maybe a little uncertainty, yet there was still a subtle hint of hope buried in the depths of his eyes; so deep and so guarded that he didn’t seem to understand it, himself, but she did, and given time, maybe—just maybe—she could make him realize it, too . . .

But he sighed and looked away, tapping his fingertips together in a nervous sort of way, and when he sighed, he sounded so very weary that it made her want to reach out to him. “She would have liked it: that dollhouse . . .”

“So you built it for her,” Isabelle said with a nod.

“No . . . yes . . . I don’t even know . . .”

‘ _But you miss her, don’t you . . .? Your sister . . . Oh, Griffin_ . . .’

She wanted to reach out to him, to touch his hand and to tell him that it was all right. In the end, all she could do was sit beside him and hope that he understood. He didn’t have to be alone anymore because . . .

Because she wouldn’t leave him, no matter what he wanted to believe . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Hahaue_** _: Japanese term for Mother_.  
>  ** _Chichiue_** _: Japanese term for Father_.
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
> … _His sister_ …


	41. Collision

“ _She was my sister_ . . .”

Sitting on the window sill staring up at the nearly full moon high in the sky, Isabelle sighed softly and pulled the edges of her robe closer around her shoulders. Unable to sleep, she’d given up after lying in bed, tossing and turning for better than an hour. She just couldn’t stop thinking about all the things that Griffin had said.

His sister . . . It was evident that he loved her dearly and that he missed her, but Isabelle couldn’t shake the feeling that there was even more to it than he’d admitted to her; some bit of the puzzle that was eluding her. Why had he looked so sad? Why had she sensed an underlying feeling of guilt from him? Easy to say that he simply felt guilty for having lived long after the rest of his family had died, but was that the extent of it?

The inky outline of the forest against the paler midnight sky normally lent her a feeling of peace on nights such as this. With the moon high in the sky, illuminating the darkness with the gentlest light, she’d often sat and pondered things on nights such as this. It lent her a semblance of calm and clarity, but tonight . . . It just wasn’t helping.

His words, his actions, his expressions . . . they’d all been etched into her mind. She didn’t have to be told to know that he’d likely never talked about his family before, and as much as the knowledge pleased her, she couldn’t help but think that it was sad, too. ‘ _To have lived for so long in a self-imposed isolation, but why? Why would a man like him, someone with so very much to give, do that to himself?_ ’

His sister—Kumiko—the little girl who danced in the yellow kimono . . . Isabelle could picture her in her mind, cheeks rosy with a happy flush, soft gales of laughter filling the air as she spun around in circles . . . Did Griffin ever dance with her? Had he humored her despite his own feelings of embarrassment because it had pleased her for him to do so?

“ _She would have liked it: that dollhouse_ . . .”

Wincing as the sadness of his softly uttered statement assailed her—weighed down on her—once more, Isabelle let her head fall back against the window frame. Something didn’t make sense, and though she was having trouble putting her finger on it, the truth of it was there. Maybe it was his reluctance to talk about his family; a reluctance that seemed to go far deeper than a simple aversion to letting anyone into his life too deeply. Maybe it was the overwhelming sense of absolute sorrow that still touched him even after what had to be centuries since her death . . .

“ _I don’t remember. I sort of . . . wandered for a while. Up through Asia . . . across the Bering Strait . . . Traveled around Canada . . . Didn’t really aim to come here, if that’s what you meant_.”

She grimaced. Though he hadn’t said as much, his manner, his very aura, had spoken volumes. She got the impression that he hadn’t left Japan as much as he’d felt _compelled_ to leave it behind, and what could possibly make him want to do that more than memories that hurt?

‘ _Or maybe_ ,’ she thought, opening her eyes and letting her chin fall forward once more, ‘ _I’m reading way too much into everything_.’

‘ _You don’t really believe that, do you?_ ’ her youkai chided.

She sighed. No, she really didn’t.

‘ _But what am I missing . . .?_ ’ she asked herself instead.

Her youkai was slower to answer, as though it, too, was pondering the enormity of what she’d been told. ‘ _Think, Bitty, think . . . what was it he said to you before?_ ’

‘ _Before . . .?_ ’

‘ _Remember? When you lost the McKinley baby . . . what did he say?_ ’

Closing her eyes, Isabelle tried to remember; hating to relive that awful night, and yet knowing that there was something there; something she’d missed at the time . . . He’d come to her, tried to comfort her, and in the end, he had, but . . . but what was it that he’d said when she’d finally realized that he did understand the hurt and frustration and absolute feeling of guilt that had riddled her emotions . . .?

“ _Don’t you do it; do you hear me? Don’t you blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault, and . . . It’s never going to make sense. Sometimes . . . sometimes . . . something like that will never make sense, no matter how many years you live_.”

“Something like that will never make sense . . . no matter how many years you . . . live . . .” she repeated in a whisper as a cold chill passed down her spine.

“ _You’re wrong, you know. Doctors aren’t gods, and just because you couldn’t save one baby doesn’t make you a devil, either._ ”

She winced. ‘ _Because I couldn’t_ . . .’

“ _Their pleas never go away . . . Never_ . . .”

‘ _He . . . he knew because_ . . .’ trailing off with a wince, Isabelle lifted a trembling hand to cover her mouth as the last bit of the mystery fell into place. It made sense, didn’t it? As much as she wanted to believe otherwise, the truth of it . . . ‘ _Oh, Griffin . . . you . . . no_ . . .’

She heard the door scrape softly against the floor and didn’t have to look to sense Griffin’s presence. “Uh . . .” he uttered, obviously surprised that she was still awake. He started to pull the door closed again, muttering under his breath about making sure she had turned off her light.

“Wait,” she called softly, turning her face toward him. “Please . . .”

He hesitated for a moment, his hand on the door handle, and she couldn’t see his face. The wan light from the hallway cast him in darker shadows, and all she could discern were the pinpoints of light reflecting in his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” he asked, letting go of the door and crossing his arms over his chest.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she confessed, uncurling her legs as she shifted to give him her complete attention. Hands clasped in her lap, she sighed and slowly shook her head. “Could I . . . ask you something?”

He grunted but remained silent otherwise. It was as close to a ‘yes’ as she was going to get, she supposed. Pushing herself to her feet, she went to him, her bare feet whispering on the floor. Stopping before him, she stared up into his face as she sought to find a way to voice her thoughts. “You . . . you couldn’t save her, could you? Kumiko . . .”

He flinched, his head jerking to the side as though she’d struck him. Slowly, gently, she reached out, cupping his cheek in her hand and making him meet her gaze once more. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her chest constricting painfully as the raw, jagged edges of his youki drew in close around him—protecting him?

He didn’t respond right away. His eyes darted from one side to the other in a vain attempt to keep from looking at her; as though he feared what he’d see if he dared . . .

“You told me,” she went on, “that the world was filled with enough regrets; that adding mine to them all wouldn’t change anything. You were right, you know . . .”

He snorted and shook his head, still refusing to meet her gaze. “Or maybe I was full of it.”

“No, you weren’t,” she insisted, stroking his cheek, trying to show him that he really wasn’t alone, no matter what he wanted to believe. “How old was she?”

He sighed and pulled away from her, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he wandered over to the window. Standing with his outline bathed in moonlight, he seemed so mysterious, so far removed from her, and yet the sadness that enveloped him was just a little too real. She was beginning to think that he wasn’t going to answer her, and she wasn’t at all certain that pressing him for answers was a good idea. As the silence lengthened and grew, she stared at him, willed him to understand that no matter what he wanted to believe, that she wasn’t going to leave him; not ever.

“She . . . she was four,” Griffin said, his voice cracking, harsher than normal, thickened by repressed emotion.

Isabelle winced, understanding the thread of hostility that delineated his words. “Four,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Just a baby . . .”

Rubbing his forehead, he heaved a sigh as though he were fighting to control his emotions. “She . . . she liked to put flowers . . . in my hair . . . I hated it, but . . . it made her happy, and . . .”

She went to him, touched his elbow, desperate to comfort him and feeling completely useless in the face of his absolute sorrow—sorrow that hadn’t lessened or waned, even after the passage of so many years. “How old were you?”

Griffin shook his head, staring at the moon, his eyes uncannily bright, lost in a sheen of tears that stubbornly refused to fall. “I was . . . I don’t remember . . .”

She frowned, sensing his lie but unwilling to call him on it, either. She had a feeling that it wasn’t that he was trying to keep things from her. It was more like he was trying to keep himself from thinking about it too much . . .

He shrugged and sighed once more, letting his gaze fall away from the sky as he slowly shook his head. “It was . . . it was a long time ago . . .” He trailed off, his youki wound so tightly around him that it seemed to repel hers. He held to it as tightly as he held to his privacy, his secrets, and yet there was a sense of complete desperation that she could feel, too. “I can hear her sometimes in my dreams,” he said in such a way that Isabelle had to wonder whether or not he even realized he was speaking out loud. “But I can’t reach her . . . I can’t reach her . . .”

“Griffin . . .” She stepped in front of him, wrapped her arms around him, feeling utterly helpless but wanting to show him that she was there. He resisted her for a minute, his back rigid, his stance set. She held onto him, buried her face against his shoulder, willed him to understand everything that she’d ever tried to tell him. A harsh sound escaped him, caught somewhere between a frustrated growl and a soft little whimper that he just couldn’t hold in any longer—a sound so very foreign from the man that she knew that she flinched against the rise of absolute pain that slammed through her—pain for his loss; pain for the innocence that he’d left behind so long ago.

And suddenly he hugged her back, his arms locking around her, tightening so fiercely that she gasped but held on. His embrace was almost painful, and yet she wouldn’t trade it for the world. ‘ _Whatever he needs_ ,’ she told herself wildly, squeezing her eyes closed as he trembled, as he fought to contain the fresh tide of emotion that she’d unleashed in him. ‘ _Anything; anything_ . . .’

Pushing herself back far enough to look at him, she couldn’t help the quiet whine that slipped from her at the unadulterated anguish writ on his countenance. His eyes seemed to probe hers, searching for some semblance of understanding that she might be able to impart him, but she had none—no reason, no rationale that might lend him a fragile sense of peace, of understanding. On some level, he wanted her to help him. She could tell even if he didn’t consciously realize it, himself. His youki stretched toward her, enveloping her in a wholly primitive sort of way, as though it was enough to give him a measure of strength when his felt as though his was gone.

A hundred emotions passed over his features, each one fleeting, dissipating before it could be properly discerned. A want, a need, an unspoken promise; a pleading for something that couldn’t be defined . . . coherent thought became more transient than the wisps of a summer breeze—something that would be better left unvoiced, unmentioned.

His lips parted, his breathing harsh and stunted, and for a moment—just for a moment—he struggled for a better grasp on the world that he’d never learned to understand. The poignancy in his guarded expression tore at her as the pain that he forever sought to hide surged out, flowing around them with a malignant intention. As if in response, she shook her head slightly, slipped her arms around his neck, sank her fingers into his hair, tugging him toward her, his lips dropping over hers, and she pressed herself as close as she possibly could as a single tear traced a path down her cheek.

Reacting on instinct—the primal need to comfort her mate—Isabelle relented, letting him take control of the hesitant kiss. His grip loosened slightly but held her close, cradling her against him in an infinitely gentle way. His arms crossed behind her back; his hands lingered on her sides as though he were afraid to let her go; his lips softening in a long, slow kiss that permeated the deepest corners of her mind, obliterating any thought that might have intruded. The trace sweetness of his mouth goaded her; his lips still touched with the lingering taste of honey . . .

Fangs grazing over her lips, swollen from the crush of his mouth on hers, Griffin shuddered, drawing her closer, trying to make her a part of him; an extension of himself: every bit as necessary to him as air, as water, as the sun. On the basest of levels, he understood what she was trying to tell him; that she wanted to be with him, that she needed him . . . and even if she’d never need him nearly as much as he needed her, that was . . . all right . . . wasn’t it . . .? At least for now . . . just for now . . .

He didn’t have the strength to push her away; couldn’t think of a single reason why he would want to. Mind filled with nothing but the image of her, of the scent of her, of the feel of her, the battle was lost before it ever began. She kissed him once, twice, a thousand times, her lips opening to him as her breath fanned over him, condensing on his flesh like dew in the first pale streaks of dawn. She felt so right to him, so perfect, and it was enough to both thrill and frighten him at the same time. Her fingers massaged his neck, twining deep into his hair as she clung to him, as the scent of her tears mingled with the inebriating proximity of her body on his senses.

Dragging his mouth away from hers long enough to kiss the tears off her cheeks, Griffin winced, ruthlessly squashing the whisper in the back of his mind that he would certainly regret it if he didn’t stop himself soon. Recriminations he had in abundance, and for once in his life—just once—to possess such a beautiful creature . . .

The satin covering her body felt feverish to his touch, his hands lingering on the overheated material that she’d brazenly called a robe. He’d muttered a thousand curses under his breath the first time he’d seen the ensemble—little more than a tease of satin she wore over an even worse confection of the same satin with a flirt of lace edging the high slit that extended up to her hip. A Christmas present from her cousin, Jillian—another reason to believe that he was truly cursed, in his opinion . . .

But if he’d thought that the sight of the nightgown and robe was too much on his senses, the feel of it was so much more devastating. Her body seemed to flow against his like the ebb of a river against the shore, breaking and yielding yet returning to its original form as it receded . She was as strong as water, wasn’t she? And he . . . he was the rock that had been eroded away by the gentle but steady presence of a more indomitable spirit . . .

“I-Isa . . . belle . . .” he breathed, struggling to understand the forces that drove him.

Her hand pressed against his cheek again, her nimble fingers splayed, tracing the outline of his scars in the darkness. He jerked his head to the side, but she was persistent, and when he finally opened his eyes, it was to see the tears still spiking her eyelashes, clinging to them in the moonlight; sparkling like diamonds.

But she didn’t look disgusted. Staring at his face as her fingers continued to trace the network of scars, she blinked, shook her head, rose on tiptoe to press her lips against one of the jagged seams.

“You have a beautiful soul,” she murmured, placing a succession of nibbling kisses along the corner of his mouth.

He grunted, wanting to push her away but powerless to stop her. She was too fresh, too brilliant, and he’d wanted her for far, far too long. Her fingers trailed down his cheek, along the contour of his jaw, and he shivered, wondering how it was that such a small woman in comparison could bring a man like him to his knees with nothing more than a gentle touch, a whisper, a tear . . .

Isabelle kissed his jaw, nibbled at the roughened flesh of his chin. Gasping as her hands pushed up under his shirt and undershirt, he couldn’t help the ragged growl that rumbled through the air as her fingers brushed over his flesh.

“N . . . N . . .” he began to say, unable to finish the thought to save his soul. Devil . . . Angel . . . Isabelle . . . He wasn’t sure what she was. All he knew was that he needed her closer. She was all the things that he could never be, and for once, it did not frighten him.

The scent of her was too comforting, too enticing to ignore. With every touch of her hands, with every breath she drew she twined herself deeper and deeper into the parts of himself that he’d tried to forget, and it barely registered in his mind when she pushed his shirt off his shoulders, as she tugged on his undershirt in an impatient sort of way, bringing it up over his head before he could protest; his brain full of nothing but Isabelle—nothing but the growing ache that burgeoned somewhere deep inside him.

“Griffin,” she breathed just before closing her mouth over the pulse in his throat. He groaned softly, letting his head fall back as a violent surge of something wanton shot through him. Her hands slid over his skin, gently kneading the muscles of his stomach, his chest. She leaned into him, body pressed against body, radiant heat reaching out to him, wrapping him in an absolute stupor.

Her robe fell away leaving her in the satin nightgown that clung to her in an unearthly sinful sort of way, but even that was too much. The satin seemed to scorch him, burning him wherever it touched his skin. Overheated by her body, he gasped, groaned as the hardened buds of her nipples rubbed against him. The absolute sensation was just too much. The filmy fabric of her nightgown merely added to it, combining with the cadence she created as she sucked on his neck, her heart beating in an erratic pattern.

She felt good— _too_ good—too real, too vibrant, too alive . . . a breathing wonder in the night . . . Griffin couldn’t do much more than hang on, losing himself in the intensity of the moment. He could feel his hands shaking, could feel himself trembling under her perusal, and with a fleeting second of clarity, he realized that she was quaking, too.

Her hands dipped lower. He felt the tug on his fly but in his addled mind, it just didn’t make any sense at all. “Isabelle . . .?” he murmured, struggling to open his eyes.

She uttered a sound caught somewhere between a moan and a sigh. Lifting her chin to meet his gaze, she stared at him through heavily lidded eyes. Crushing her against him with one arm, delving his hand into the thickness of her hair with his free hand, he brought his lips down on hers once more, his groan caught up in the kiss.

She clutched at his shoulders as though she thought she was going to fall if she didn’t, gripping him tightly but somehow managing to find the clarity of mind to keep her claws from breaking his skin. Her body strained against his, obliterating reason and shattering his defenses, and he half-stepped, half-stumbled in the general direction of the bed.

His blood hammered in his ears, seared his veins as everything within him reached out to her. She gasped as the two of them tumbled onto the bed; he managed to shift enough to land on his back, sheltering Isabelle from the impact without losing the connection of their kiss. She melted against him, nestled against his heart, her hands stroking his shoulders, his chest, her hips grinding against his in a wholly evocative way.

Time seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of them in a realm where the only things that mattered were the things that the senses could discern. Her scent shifted and deepened, her skin burned against him. Her hair fell over him in the softest waves, and while a part of him would be content to stay like that forever, the rest of him wanted so much more . . . Every touch of her hands sparked an ache, a need, and with every passing moment, that need grew, shifted into a painful want.

He didn’t know how to explain it to her; how to make her understand. He needed—wanted—more, but words were futile, just out of his grasp.

Dragging his claws up her sides, unsure why but needing to touch her, he realized in the back of his mind that her body was reacting on its own, arching against his touch, demanding whatever he was willing to give. The satin covering her skin was a nuisance, and he tugged on it in abject protest.

She seemed to understand him. Kissing him slowly, deeply, she was hesitant to break the contact. With a little whimper, she pushed herself away and sat up, her breathing and his echoing in the quiet room. He lay there, unable to shake the haze that had settled over his mind, and as though in a trance—maybe a dream—he watched as she rose on her knees, letting the thin straps of the nightgown fall down her arms; letting the nightgown slip off her body only to pool around her on the coverlet.

She was perfect, wasn’t she? He’d known on some level that she was, and yet . . . and yet seeing the truth revealed was so much more devastating than he could have possibly imagined. Full breasts, rising and falling in the silvery moonlight filtering through the windows . . . her narrow waist—had he realized just how small it really was? He could easily span her waist with his hands . . . the gentle flare of her hips . . . the delicate swatch of her pink silk panties . . .

And still he watched as she scooted off the bed, dropping the nightgown on the floor as she hooked her thumbs in her waistband and slowly pushed them down the length of her legs.

“God,” he breathed, unsure if he’d spoken out lout or not as she straightened her back proudly. She didn’t make a move to cover herself, standing still for a minute, as though letting him commit her to memory, golden eyes glowing softly, full of emotion that Griffin was reluctant to define. The shadows that might have been harsh were tempered just for her, lending her a radiance that transcended anything that he’d borne witness to before, and somehow he knew that it wouldn’t matter how long he lived or what he tried to tell himself, the sight of her in that moment would forever be the most beautiful thing he’d ever see.

She laughed softly, huskily, and stepped over to the nightstand, rummaging around it the drawer before crawling onto the bed once more. He heard the crinkle of plastic but didn’t have time to think about it as she tugged at the button of his pants. Opening his mouth to stop her, he gasped instead when her fingers slipped under the band of his underpants, slipping them down his body and discarding them on the floor, too. His protests died on his lips as she wrapped her fingers around him, squeezing and releasing. With a strangled growl, he lifted his hips, unable to control himself as his body’s reactions took over. Digging his fists into the coverlet, every muscle in his body straining for a semblance of control that she stripped away with her touch, he moaned, closing his eyes against the sight of her there, kneeling beside him.

He vaguely heard the sound of plastic again, but he couldn’t summon the will to open his eyes. Stroking him up and down slowly, deliberately, she was driving him mad.   A thin sheen of sweat broke on his brow, and he gasped, gritting his teeth together, willing himself to calm down. He felt the condom being rolled over the length of him, and he groaned. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take . . .

“Open your eyes,” she said in a husky whisper.

Griffin did, watching as Isabelle crawled over him, her breasts dragging against his skin in a caress that unleashed another round of desire so intense that he gasped yet again. Leaning down to kiss him, she sighed softly. He could feel the absolute heat radiating from her, and she opened her eyes, smiled down at him, pushing back against him, down on him. Throwing her head back as a throaty cry spilled from her lips, she reared back, her body trembling around him.

The feel of her was devastating on his senses, sending every nerve in his body into a riot that he couldn’t control. Breathing hard yet feeling as though he wasn’t breathing at all, he gasped, groaned as she slowly started to move, grinding her hips against his in a vortex of sensation, he felt as though every part of him was dying only to be reawakened once more.

She pitched forward against his chest, her breathing coming in smothered gasps, and still she rocked against him, creating an unbelievable heat, a consuming need that swelled larger, loomed darker, floated in an unattainable space just out of his grasp. It was torture, plain and simple. Her movements were only serving to fuel the fire that licked at him, burning hotter with every second, with every undulation of her hips, with every ragged breath that fanned over his skin.

Wrapping his arms around her, he rolled to the side, pinning her against the mattress as she arched against him, as her mouth fell open with a small whimper. An invisible need goaded him, drove him further in a completely primitive sort of way. Bracing his weight on his arms, he rose up, pushed into her, growled low in his throat as need took over.

He’d never felt anything like it before: the overwhelming heat, the absolute friction . . . she braced her feet against the bed, lifted her hips, rocking them against his. “Griffin,” she breathed, “please . . .”

Her ragged entreaty wrenched a moan from somewhere deep within, and he squeezed his eyes closed, unable to reconcile the myriad of emotions raining down on him. Everything he thought he knew, everything he’d ever believed, and all the things that had never made a damn bit of sense seemed to converge in her. Beauty and light, loneliness and sorrow and the paradox of a lifetime spent in the shadows blended together into the intricacy of her.

The throb of her heart resounded in his ears; a quiet entreaty that he answered with all the ferocity that he couldn’t quite contain. Everything about her bespoke a certain familiarity wrapped up in a torrent of untried emotion.

Reacting on an instinctive level—he understood the unrelenting ache that surged in her—he pulled back only to push against her once more. She cried out, her body convulsing around him. It only served to heighten the need that swelled inside him. Bending her legs, locking them around his waist, she lifted her hips to meet his thrusts, her moans and sighs resounding in his ears.

He could feel the pressure welling deep inside him, moved faster to alleviate the ache that just kept building. It bordered on painful, but he couldn’t stop. Her body reacted to every nuance, accepting everything about him as a matter of course. The muscles in his arms bulged and rippled, and he shook his head, trying to escape the consuming need that spiraled and strengthened. He didn’t know how much more he could take. The pressure was enormous and intense . . .

With a broken cry, Isabelle tightened her legs around him, brought her hips up to meet his, her body jerking, contorting, drawing him deeper, deeper. It was enough to break through the pressure, enough to wring a harsh growl out of him as he strained against her; as he felt himself coming undone.

Holding still as he lost himself in the throes of absolute abandon, he dug his claws into the coverlet, reveling in an absolute pleasure that was almost painful.

Collapsing against her, his body too drained to stop, Griffin breathed in the scent of her. His entire being felt leaden as little tremors erupted all over, he heard a distant sound but in his addled mind, he couldn’t quite discern it.

Isabelle was laughing—or was she crying? –holding onto him so tightly that he grimaced. She was kissing him all over his face, snuggling closer and closer to him though he couldn’t rightfully recall having turned over onto his back, and she must have removed the condom, because it wasn’t there, either.

With the intrusion of reality came the harsh reminder of the enormity of the moment, and while he knew damn well that there was nothing good in life without the regrets that always came later, he just couldn’t bring himself to give voice to those—at least, not for the moment.

The feel of Isabelle cuddled against him was just too inviting; and he could already feel himself starting to slip off to sleep. Besides, the prospect of hating himself for it later seemed so very far away. He’d think about that in the morning . . .

“Jezebel,” he muttered, closing his eyes and pulling her a little closer.

He thought he heard her soft laughter as he drifted away in sleep, but he couldn’t be sure . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _Jezebel, indeed!_


	42. The Price of the Dream

Griffin flinched and opened his eyes, grinding his teeth together as a consuming ache jarred him out of an otherwise peaceful slumber. Isabelle whimpered, snuggling in closer against him, and as coherence seeped over him, so did the regret.

‘ _God . . . what did I . . .?_ ’

His youkai sighed. ‘ _You don’t remember?_ ’

He grimaced, smashing a hand over his face, wishing that he really _didn’t_ remember. ‘ _Damn it_ . . .’

Unfortunately, he did, and a little too well at that . . .

The memories were real, raw: as fresh in his mind as the feel of Isabelle curled up against his side. ‘ _N . . . no_ . . .’

He had to get out of there; had to get away from her. Even now, all he wanted to do was to reach for her, to reassure himself that she was real, that she was right there beside him. She looked so . . . so happy, didn’t she? She looked like there wasn’t a thing in the world that she could be given that would make her happier than she was at that moment.

And that thought was enough to kill him inside.

‘ _What have I . . . done . . .?_ ’

Carefully shifting her so that he could get up without disturbing her sleep, Griffin sighed, resisted the urge to smooth her brow when she frowned, snuggling under the covers that he drew up over her. Even in sleep her youki called to him, and he sighed. He’d done enough, hadn’t he? He was a fool—ten times a fool—especially when he knew damn well that the only one who would suffer in the end would be her . . .

But his body was nearly at its limit, and if he stayed where he was much longer, he’d spend the next week regretting it. He winced as he swung his legs off the bed and pushed himself to his feet. They nearly buckled under his weight—he had to catch himself on the stout end post of the bed to keep himself from falling flat on his face. It was sheer resolve alone that helped him to don his clothes. The exertion of the night before coupled with having slept in one position for too long was wreaking havoc on his body.

“Where you goin’?” Isabelle murmured as Griffin reached for the door handle. She didn’t sound completely awake, and when he dared to glance back at her, he frowned at the glassy quality of her stare.

“I, uh . . . I was going for a walk. Just . . . go back to sleep.”

She yawned and snuggled down under the blankets. “You want me to go with you?” she mumbled.

“N-no,” he insisted, praying that she could see the blush that he could feel. “Just . . .” He sighed. “I’ll be back.”

“Mm,” she agreed, closing her eyes once more. She was asleep again within moments, and Griffin paused in the doorway, soaking in the image of her, lying in that bed with her hair tousled and mussed . . . with a peaceful sort of half-smile on her face . . .

A cold, wet nose touched his hand, and Griffin blinked, shifting his gaze to stare at the dog who was sitting at his feet, wagging his tail quite happily. “Watch over her, Charlie,” Griffin said. “Stay here.”

The dog whined—he always seemed to know when Griffin was planning to go for a walk. Charlie bobbed his head in an effort to sway him then whined softly when Griffin shook his head ‘no’. Tail drooping, ears sticking out to the sides, Charlie padded over to the side of the bed and stretched out on the floor.

Satisfied that the dog would watch over Isabelle in his absence, Griffin forced himself out of the bedroom. He had to reach out to steady himself against the wall as he forced his feet to cooperate, but the ache in his body was nothing in comparison to the recrimination that riddled him.

By the time he’d managed to reach the foyer, he was sweating from the effort he’d expended, and it was sheer force of will that he was able to put his shoes on. Scowling as he jammed his arms into his coat and reached for his cane, he sighed and shook his head before making the trek toward the back door.

Twenty kinds the fool, that’s what he was . . . Even if he could believe that a woman like Isabelle really belonged with a man like him, he’d just proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was too damn old to keep up with her.

Pulling the door closed behind him, he heaved a sigh and reached for the railing, leaning heavily on his cane. It grated on his nerves, his reliance on the damned thing at times like this, solidifying in his mind that he really wasn’t as capable as other youkai—reminding him of things that he wished he didn’t have to remember.

The sky had darkened. The moon had moved further away, blocked now and again by drifting clouds. The cold had seeped into the pre-dawn earth. Nothing stirred in the air; only the fabricated sounds of man-made technology that he’d never quite grown accustomed to despite having lived among the general populace for the last few decades. Picking his way through the yard and into the forest beyond, Griffin shook his head, grinding his teeth together against the sharp edges of pain that shot down his legs with every step.

What had he done . . .?

Wincing as the entirely too vivid memories washed over him in an unforgiving torrent, he couldn’t repress the low growl that escaped. He hadn’t meant to let her get so close, damn it . . .

He’d gone to her room to check on her—that’s what he’d told himself at the time, anyway. He just wanted to look in on her; to make sure that she was sleeping soundly. He wasn’t going to stay; of course he wasn’t . . . He wasn’t going to sit in there and . . .

Grimacing as a voice whispered in his head, he paused long enough to rub his face in a weary sort of way. ‘ _Liar_ ,’ the voice said over and over again. ‘ _Liar, liar, liar_ . . .’

It was impossible to ignore the truth; the knowledge that there had been absolutely no reluctance on her part. No, she’d welcomed his attentions, hadn’t she? She’d . . . craved it as badly as he had, and yet he knew that as precious as that moment had been, there could never be a lifetime of it; not for a man like him. He’d done too much, seen too much, and while everyone around him that he’d ever cared about had fallen by the wayside, he, alone, had remained . . .

‘ _Not true_ ,’ his youkai said in a strangely gentle tone. ‘ _Attean and Maria_ —”

‘— _Don’t know a thing, do they?_ ’ he snapped back, baring his fangs in a flash of unaccountable anger. True enough, wasn’t it? He’d never told them because . . . because the less they knew about him, the better off they’d be. Maybe he’d thought on some level that he was protecting them from getting too close; to falling prey to the curse that he just couldn’t shake off, the stigma on his soul that manifested itself in much the same way as the scars that traversed his body.

He’d managed to protect Attean and Maria—he’d owed them that much after they’d saved him, but Isabelle . . .

And that was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it? In the past three weeks, he’d come to understand a few things—things he didn’t want to think about, and yet they were there, all the same. He’d let her come too close, lowering his defenses without even realizing, and that wasn’t acceptable; not in the least. She was . . . _too_ necessary to him; too integral, and . . . and the need to distance himself from her was more for her sake than it was for his. If she could be saved . . .

If she could be saved, then that was all he could really ask for, wasn’t it?

He’d tried to reason it all out in his mind so many times, and he knew that the reason he’d let her stay—the real reason—had nothing at all to do with the research, no matter what he’d maintained at the time. Sure, he’d used it as a good rationale in order to assuage his conscience, and maybe it held water, but he also knew damn well that her family was quite capable of seeing to her safety, and probably much better adept to it than he’d ever be. Even then, the truth of it was that he’d only changed the ultimate target, hadn’t he? If someone did come after the research, they’d end up coming after her, anyway. Having moved both her and the research . . . maybe that had been stupid—massively stupid.

‘ _Or maybe you’re simply trying to push her away and need a reason to let her go_.’

He didn’t respond to that. There was truth in that, wasn’t there? Maybe somewhere deep down he needed this—convincing himself that she definitely would be safer if she were further away from him because . . . because he just wasn’t strong enough to let her go otherwise . . .

Choking out a mournful little sound—not quite a growl, not quite a whine, Griffin gritted his teeth and forced his feet to keep moving, his slow gait tottering and uneven as he tightened his grip on the cane.

‘ _What if . . . what if you’re wrong?_ ’ his youkai voice spoke up suddenly. ‘ _What if it wouldn’t really matter to her? She said . . . she said that she’d never leave you._ ’

Griffin winced, shaking his head. ‘ _She . . . she didn’t say that_ . . .’

‘ _She did; she did. You just weren’t listening. She said it with her body, with everything she does . . . her youkai . . . it speaks to me_ . . .’

‘ _That . . . that’s not true_ ,’ he maintained. ‘ _She’ll hate me eventually, and_ . . .’

‘ _And you wouldn’t be able to stand to see that; I know. If she ever looked at you with anything other than the emotion you see in her eyes now, right? But . . . but would she? Would she, really?_ ’

‘ _Of course she would!_ ’ he growled, stopping abruptly and leaning against a gnarled old tree. He was breathing heavily—he hadn’t realized he was pushing himself so hard—he’d covered a lot more forest than usual in the time he’d been gone. ‘ _Who would want to be with a . . . a . . . a murderer?_ ’

His youkai didn’t respond to that. Not surprising, really. It was the truth, wasn’t it? After all was said and done, that’s what it amounted to, and Isabelle . . .

Wincing as the entirely too-vivid memory assailed him once more, as the scent of her—of _them_ —mingled and rose to torment him, Griffin winced. Isabelle deserved better than a man like him could ever hope to give her.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Mynra stifled a wide yawn with the back of her hand as she stumbled through the congested living room. Grimacing as she hit her shin against a stack of boxes haphazardly arranged beside a small chair, she paused to rub her leg before shoving the boxes back to clear a path to the kitchen.

‘ _Damn that Ben, anyway_ ,’ she thought with an inward snort. ‘ _I should sharpen my claws on him the next time he dares show his pretty face around here_ . . .’

It was his fault, wasn’t it? Damn him and his blackheart, he really just didn’t care at all that he’d completely dumped on her . . .

“ _Good afternoon, Ms. Loy,” he’d said with that catty little grin of his—entirely sexy, but wholly catty, nonetheless. She’d always thought the panther-youkai was one of the finest men she’d ever clapped eyes on, after all_. . .

 _She’d regarded him coolly over the brim of a mug of green tea. “Well, well, well . . . look what the cat dragged in,” she drawled_.

 _He chuckled, flipping the end of the impossibly long black ponytail over his shoulder in a rather nonchalant sort of way. “Something like that,” he conceded, his smile widening by degrees_.

“ _And to what do I owe the honor of your presence, oh mighty kitty lord?_ ”

 _Shaking his head slowly, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “I wondered if you would be willing to do me a favor,” he said, foregoing the teasing commentary and cutting right to the chase_.

“ _Hmm, what’s in it for me?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow, letting her gaze travel down his tall, lanky frame and back up once more_.

 _If he noticed, he didn’t bother to comment though he hadn’t been able to completely mask his discomfort behind a well-placed cough. “I’ve decided to move my office,” he replied, glancing at his watch and flicking his wrist to adjust the timepiece_.

 _Myrna chuckled, waving a hand in a dismissive sort of way. “Oh, well, even if I could slip out of here which isn’t likely, I’m not exactly what you’d call good at manual labor. Sorry about that_.”

 _He chuckled again at her facetious tone of voice. “Can’t say that I’d considered putting a woman like you to work in that capacity, Ms. Loy,” he admitted_.

 _Turning around to pull a mug from the cupboard, she took her time preparing it for him. “A woman like me, huh?” She shot him a lazy little grin and shrugged. “And exactly what kind of woman am I?_ ”

 _She was teasing, and he knew it. Slowly shaking his head, he held his hands up in a show of mock contrition. “Absolutely nothing bad, I assure you,” he rejoined smoothly_.

“ _Hmm,” she drawled, resuming her casual stance once more. “Bad can be rather nice now and then, don’t you think?_ ”

 _He blinked slowly, his lips still quirked in the barest hint of a smile. “I’m sure it is,” he agreed. “But you know the saying: business before pleasure_. . ."

“ _That’s a damn shame, Ben,” she commented. Heaving a mock sigh, she nodded in agreement. “I have to admit you’ve got me rather intrigued, Benjamin. Let’s hear your proposition_.”

 _His smile broke wider, and he strode across the room, accepting the tea that she offered him. “You have quite a way with words, you know_.”

“ _Do I?_ ”

“ _Yes, you do_.”

 _She couldn’t help but smile at the hint of censure in his tone. The man was just too good, wasn’t he? From what she’d gleaned about him long before she’d ever actually met him, he’d been that way his entire life. That he’d managed to live as long as he had without as much as a hint of anything that could be considered scandalous was amazing, and her smile widened as she wondered vaguely just how many women had tried over the years to bring the saint to his proverbial knees. “You know, if I wouldn’t go straight to hell for it, I’d absolutely try to seduce you,” she mused_.

 _He didn’t blush exactly, but his cheeks did pink a trace amount. “You’d go to hell for that?_ ”

“ _Isn’t that what normally happens when a sinner dares to touch a saint?_ ”

“ _Now you flatter me,” he remarked, sipping his tea. She had a feeling that he was hiding a smile behind that mug_.

‘More’s the pity,’ _she thought with a dramatic sigh_. ‘Damn, that man is nothing but walking, talking devastation . . .’

“ _Anyway, I wondered if I could impose upon you to go through some boxes of paperwork that’s been gathering dust in the basement of my current office building. I meant to scan the documents into the computer database, but I never got around to it, you see_ . . .”

 _Wrinkling her nose, Myrna took her time washing out the mug and setting it on a folded towed beside the sink. “And here I was hoping that you’d have something much, much more . . ._ interesting _in mind_.”

 _He chuckled and stepped around her to rinse his mug in the sink. “A woman like you would break my heart in the end,” he quipped, matching his tone to hers_.

 _She heaved a sigh and leaned against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest and narrowing her eyes on the youkai. Silver eyes so piercing that they felt as though they could see into a person’s very soul rose to meet her gaze, and she cleared her throat softly, sheer bravado keeping her from looking away. “Damn it, Ben, why haven’t you found a mate yet?” she murmured_.

 _Ben shook his head, pinning her with a no-nonsense look designed to let her know that the topic she was delving into was not one he was willing to discuss with her. “I was hoping that you’d agree to help me with the files,” he prompted_.

“ _Seriously, Ben, a man like you? Don’t you have a myriad of women just dying to warm your bed?” she couldn’t resist teasing_.

“ _Hardly,” he replied with a derisive snort, “and I could have sworn that I told you that I didn’t want to discuss that_.”

 _Waving a hand airily, Myrna strolled out of the kitchen, her heels clicking softly on the floor. “If you want me to do your grunt work,” she called back over her shoulder, “then you can deal with a little teasing, Benjamin_.”

“ _You’re a dangerous woman, Ms. Loy,” he mused_.

“ _Of course I am,” she quipped_.

 _He smiled rather lazily. “I took the liberty of bringing a few boxes with me. There are more that I can bring in later, but . . . well, I figured that I’d give you a couple weeks to get through these before I do that_.”

 _She quirked an eyebrow, unsure if she really wanted to hear the answer to the question she was about to pose. “How much work are we talking here?_ ”

“ _Just a few documents,” he assured her, that catty grin of his widening just slightly, “nothing that a woman of your resourcefulness can’t handle.” She didn’t trust that smile, oh no_ . . .

Heaving a sigh as she poured a cup of strong coffee into a clean mug, Myrna glared dolefully at the small mountain of boxes stacked in what used to be her living room. “A few documents, my ass,” she muttered, shoving the carafe onto the warming pad and lifting the mug to her lips. “You owe me, Ben Philips. You owe me _big_ time . . .”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Griffin winced as he trudged up the steps, wondering why he was such a glutton for punishment when he knew damn well that he was going to be in an ungodly amount of pain when he finally sat down.

He’d walked for nearly three and a half hours—he could tell by the position of the sun in the sky. Unable to garner the courage to go back and face Isabelle, he’d almost walked himself into the ground instead.

How could something so entirely perfect be so very wrong? It bothered him, damn it, and why shouldn’t it? For once in his life, he had given in; he’d let himself share in something that was so rare, so beautiful that he should, by rights, be one of the happiest men alive, and yet he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop thinking about Isabelle—about her laughter, about the way her eyes shone whenever she was content . . . She was a rare creature—the most wonderful person he’d ever known, and maybe she didn’t belong with him, but would it be so terrible to let himself believe that she did, at least for a while?

Maybe he could have if she didn’t insist that she was his mate. Maybe if she’d never said those words he’d have been able to pretend that she really did belong with him, but . . .

But he couldn’t pretend, could he? He’d forgotten how to do that a long, long time ago, if he’d ever known how to do it at all. Or maybe . . .

Maybe Isabelle was his last chance—his last chance to prove that he really could save someone who mattered to him, and it wouldn’t make a difference, what came after, so long as he knew that she would be all right. If he could just save her . . .

Pushing open the door, Griffin let out a weary breath as he stepped into the warm house, unmindful for once of the snow caked to his boots and the mess they’d make on the floor. Gritting his teeth as he leaned against the wall and bent over to pull them off his feet, he winced as his back protested the strain brought on by the movement.

“Morning, Griffin,” Isabelle said, shuffling out of the kitchen with a lazy little smile and two mugs of tea. Wearing just that damned satin robe and nothing else, she padded over to him, carefully balancing the hot drinks as she leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. “I was going to come looking for you if you weren’t back soon. Here.”

Straightening up, he took both mugs from her hands and set them on the table, squaring his shoulders but refusing to look at her as he bit back the bile that rose in his throat at the very idea of what he was about to do—to say—to her. “Isabelle,” he began, praying that for once she’d keep her mouth closed and just hear him out. “Listen—”

“I drew a hot bath for you,” she said, missing the hint of foreboding in his tone. “I know, you’re going to tell me that men don’t take baths, but I figured that you’d be cold. A good, hot soak is a wonderful way to relax.”

“Listen to me,” he growled with a shake of his head. “Just be quiet and listen.”

Her ebullience didn’t wane, but she did go silent as she reached around him for her tea mug.

He grimaced, gripping the edge of the table tightly, his claws digging into the hard wood, gathering what was left of his strength and still unable to look her in the eye. “I want you to pack your things and get out,” he said quietly.

Isabelle froze with her hand poised on the handle of the tea mug for a full minute before she slowly withdrew her arm and choked out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s not funny, Griffin,” she reprimanded, her voice taking on a higher pitch—a sure sign of the upset she was struggling to hide.

“It wasn’t meant to be. Last night . . . that . . . that shouldn’t have happened,” he assured her, wishing that she’d let him do this the easy way just this once. “I’m serious.”

She stared at him for a few seconds. He could feel her gaze on him, but he refused to look to verify it. “No,” she said, flat out refusing to listen to him.

“I’m not joking, damn it,” he stated, irritation rising that she never would listen to him. “Just . . . just go, all right?”

“I won’t,” she argued, shaking her head and stomping her foot. “Not unless you tell me why.”

Stifling a low growl, Griffin let go of the table and forced his rioting legs to move; to carry him out of the dining room and into the living room with Isabelle hot on his heels. “Nothing’s changed, all right? Last night—”

She grabbed his arm to stop him. He jerked away and kept walking. “Don’t you tell me that it meant nothing to you,” she said, casting him a furious glower. “You’re not the kind of man who has sex for no reason at all so don’t you _dare_ stand there and lie to me and say that nothing’s changed!”

“Just leave it alone, will you?” Griffin insisted, rounding on her long enough to pin her with an irritated scowl. The pain in his body was growing worse by the moment, and it was all he could do to stay on his feet. In the end, he supposed it might have helped him look angry instead of completely pathetic. In the end, he clenched his teeth and narrowed his glower before resuming his path to the desk chair. “Go home, Isabelle,” he gritted out, blinking quickly to stave back the hazy blackness that seeped into the edges of his vision.

She took a few moments to draw a deep breath. “What about the danger you thought I was in?” she challenged quietly. “I said you were crazy, and you said—”

“I know what I said,” he cut in coldly, reaching for the edge of the desk to steady himself as a cold bead of sweat ran down his cheek. “I was wrong, and even if I wasn’t, you won’t have the notes, so it’s fine. If anyone comes after them, they won’t go looking for you.”

“. . . I’m not leaving,” she stated with a resolve that broke no room for discussion.

“Yes, you are,” he contradicted, wiping his forehead on his shoulder. “This isn’t open to discussion, damn it.”

“You love me,” she said, her voice falling to barely more than a whisper.

Closing his eyes against the pleading tone, Griffin swallowed hard and hoped that she couldn’t see his face. “No, I don’t,” he rasped out. The words sounded false to his own ears even as he realized that she spoke the truth. Even if he wanted to deny it, the pain in his chest that swelled and seethed was just too blatant to be ignored. “Please . . . go home.”

She didn’t speak for a minute, and the silence thickened and grew—an angry thing; a hurtful thing. Griffin had to grit his teeth to keep himself together. When she did speak, her voice was soft, sad, and somehow full of a more cloying emotion: one that he couldn’t quite define. “You look at me, Griffin Marin, and then you say that you don’t love me.”

“Don’t be—”

“If you can do it, I’ll go.”

It was the hardest thing he’d ever done—possibly that he’d ever have to do. Turning his head slowly, meeting her eyes already awash with an unnatural brightness—a sheen of tears that she somehow held back—he swallowed hard, forced himself to gather what was left of his strength. Every bit of his being rebelled against the words that she wanted to hear; the ones that would set her free . . . He was a bastard, through and through, and . . . and she deserved so much more. Opening his mouth to words that just wouldn’t come, Griffin closed his eyes for a long moment, willing the memories out of his mind—memories of her smiles and laughter, of her silly antics designed to amuse him or at the very least, to take his mind of more serious matters—the happiness in her expression when she made him cookies or gave him pecans—the sound of her, calling out his name as she clung to him . . .

In those moments, his resolve nearly faltered. In those precious seconds, he couldn’t help the rise of panic that nearly choked him. All he wanted to do was to reach for her, to pull her to him and to beg her never to leave him. The sudden sound of a little girl’s laughter and the flash of a bright yellow kimono stopped him, washed over him like a dousing of cold water, and his eyes snapped open as a distinct chill ran up and down his spine. “I don’t . . . love . . . you,” he muttered, staring her dead in the eye and despising himself more with every passing second.

She flinched like he’d struck her, stepping back in retreat as if she believed that his words alone could hurt her. She shook her head once, twice, lifting a trembling hand to flutter over her lips as those damned tears welled in her eyes, and still he refused to look away. If he did, she’d know . . .

Choking back a sob, she blinked furiously to clear her vision, her cheeks pinking as she drew herself up proudly. “I see,” she said finally, blessedly . . . wretchedly. “Then I’ll just get my things . . .”

‘ _What are you doing, you idiot?_ ’ his youkai snarled as she turned on her heel and slipped out of the living room. ‘ _Go stop her!_ ’

Shaking his head, Griffin didn’t move, telling himself over and over again that things were better this way. _Isabelle_ would be better off this way.

He could hear the sounds of opening and closing drawers, and he grimaced as Charlie ran down the hallway and back again, stopping long enough to cast Griffin the most confused expression he’d ever seen before on a dog.

Strangely, though, he felt completely numb; devoid of all emotion and drained to the point that it all seemed like a bizarre dream.

But he wasn’t foolish enough to even attempt to convince himself that the empty feeling would last. Somehow he knew—just knew—that everything had been destined to end up this way . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _Stupid, stubborn man … !_


	43. Insomnia

“Kami, it reeks in here.”

Isabelle groaned and rolled over, jerking a pillow over her head as she tried to block out the sound of her cousin’s voice.

“Why are you still in bed, anyway, Izzy? You’re always up annoyingly bright and early, you know.”

“Shut up and get out, Mamoruzen,” she grumbled, her voice muffled by the mattress. “I don’t remember letting you in.”

“Of course you didn’t,” he shot back. “You didn’t even have the decency to answer your door.”

“Because I was sleeping—or trying to,” she mumbled. “Go away, will you?”

She heard the distinct sound of the curtains being drawn back, and she groaned, squeezing her eyes closed and wondering how hard it would be to cast an everlasting curse on her irritating cousin.

“Get out of that bed. I’ll take you to lunch.”

She groaned.

He snorted, pulling the pillow off her head despite her protests. “Come on, Izzy. Get moving, will you?”

“I could have sworn I told you to go away,” she mumbled, waving a hand around wildly in a vain effort to regain her pilfered pillow.

“No,” he stated flatly. “Is this what you’ve been doing since you left that bastard?”

Grimacing at Gunnar’s cryptic commentary, she pushed herself up on her elbows long enough to pin him with the blackest scowl she could muster. “Kick me when I’m down, why don’t you?” she asked him pointedly. “And I’ll thank you not to refer to him as a ‘bastard’.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head, cocking an articulated eyebrow at her. “I beg to differ, Izzy. Any man who would make you leave is, indeed, a bastard.”

She heaved a sigh and shook her head, pushing herself up and refusing to meet Gunnar’s gaze. “Did you just come over here to rub my nose in it, because if you did—”

“Calm down. I did no such thing. On the contrary, I came over to cheer you up.”

That finally earned him a look though it was one full of suspicion. “Really.”

“Get out of that bed and go brush your teeth,” he commanded brusquely, heading toward the bedroom door. “You smell like a bottle of cheap wine.”

“Fat lot you know,” she grumbled back, rubbing her forehead as she willed the dull throbbing in her skull to stop. “It was _moderately priced_ wine—I _do_ have my morals.”

Gunnar shook his head and kept moving while Isabelle seriously considered the idea of burrowing under the covers once again. With a disgusted sigh, she shook her head and swung her legs off the bed. Even if she tried it, Gunnar, she knew, wouldn’t let her get away with it. ‘ _He’s a fine one to talk_ ,’ she mumbled, wrinkling her nose as she waved her hand around in an effort to snag her clock to see what time it was. ‘ _He’s worse than me about getting up at the crack of dawn, and so help me, if he is here to gloat, I swear I’ll shove my foot so far up his_ —’

“Drink this,” Gunnar demanded, breezing back into the bedroom again with two steaming cups of black coffee in his hand. Shoving it under her nose, he snorted indelicately and shook his head in abject disgust. “Seriously, Izzy, when’s the last time you took a shower?”

“I took a shower yesterday morning and night, the same as I always do,” she informed him, taking the coffee from him before he got it into his head to bullying her into drinking it.

“Did you use soap?” he countered.

She kicked him—hard. He didn’t even flinch, the ass. “Go away if you’re just here to pester me,” she sulked, sipping the coffee and making a face at the bitter brew. “I have sugar in the cupboard, you know.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” he insisted, stuffing his left hand into his pocket and lifting his coffee mug to his lips with his right one. “Now be a man and drink that.”

That comment earned him a blackened scowl. He intercepted the look and cocked an eyebrow at her. “Was it something I said?” he asked baldly.

“Not at all,” she muttered, shifting her gaze to the murky liquid in the mug. “It’s my day off. If I want to sleep until noon or later, then I should be allowed to.”

“Stop pouting, Izzy,” he chided. “It doesn’t become you.”

“Hmph,” she scoffed, setting the coffee aside and reaching for the covers. Gunnar was faster, neatly plucking them away from her before she could burrow under them once more. She whined in protest, earning her a decisive snort designed to let her know that he thought she was being ridiculous.

“So you going to tell me why that bastard kicked you out?”

She winced at the carelessly worded question, bunching up her shoulders as she tried to summon a measure of bravado. “It’s not like that,” she said, her voice much smaller than she’d been hoping for, “and don’t call him that. I mean it.”

“Keh! There’s no better word for the likes of him, and you can’t convince me that you left of your own accord,” he shot back. “So tell me the truth.”

Letting her shoulders slump, she slowly shook her head and sighed. “I don’t . . . know . . .” she admitted. “Griffin just sort of . . . freaked out, I guess . . .”

“Freaked out?” Gunnar echoed, retrieving her coffee and shoving it into her hands once more. “Define ‘freaked out’.”

She thumped the cup down on the nightstand for the second time and rolled out of bed since she knew damn well that this particular cousin wouldn’t leave her alone until she complied. He was just a little too stubborn that way . . . “I mean exactly what I said,” she said, stomping across the bedroom to her closet and throwing the doors open. Grabbing the first outfit she laid hands on—a pair of jeans and a mauve blouse—she kicked the door closed and headed behind the folding screen to change. “I suppose I should have known,” she admitted, more to herself than to Gunnar as she stripped off her nightgown and tossed it across the top of the screen. “I mean, I knew that it was too soon . . . he’s only kissed me once before that, but I couldn’t help it; not after—”

“Wait,” Gunnar cut in, a hint of malice entering his tone. “That bastard kicked you out after you _slept_ with him?”

Grimacing since she hadn’t actually meant to admit as much to Gunnar, she leaned to the side to peer around the screen. “Don’t even try to say that he took advantage of me, Inutaisho Mamoruzen, or I swear on all that is holy, I’ll neuter you the hard way.”

The infuriating man simply chuckled at what should have been a dire threat. The laugher didn’t last long, though. Dying away as suddenly as it had started, he leveled a no-nonsense scowl at her and crossed his arms over his chest in a decidedly brusque way. “Did he?” he demanded.

She rolled her eyes and heaved a loud sigh as she pulled the blouse over her shoulders. “You’ll leave him alone. I mean it.”

“So do I.”

She’d figured it would come to something like this, hadn’t she? That was the real reason she’d avoided Gunnar for the last two weeks since she’d returned to her home only to discover that the home she used to love somehow seemed lonelier than it ever had before.

No, the truth of it was that she _had_ tried to avoid her family—all of them; not because she thought that they’d be unkind or anything but because it seemed like they were so happy that it made her heart ache just thinking about it. Even Gunnar—baka that he was—was content with his life, and she supposed she could appreciate that. She’d been happy enough with her own life, hadn’t she? At least, she had been until she’d met Griffin . . .

Her grandfather had always told her that she shouldn’t mess around when she found her mate; that she should make sure that she let him know that she’d chosen him, and who would know better than Cain? After having almost lost his current mate, he’d never made any bones about it to any of his children or grandchildren, and she used to think that he was simply being overly cautious, but . . .

She made a face, jerking the jeans over her feet. But she was starting to wonder, wasn’t she? After all, she was certain that Griffin really was her mate, and yet she couldn’t honestly say that she felt any different than she had the day she’d walked out the door at his behest. Physically, at least, she was . . . fine.

‘ _You should be glad that you_ are _fine, you know_ ,’ her youkai chided as she ignored whatever it was that Gunnar was saying.

‘ _I am,_ ’ she insisted.

‘ _No, you aren’t_.’

Isabelle plopped down on the stool behind the screen to tug on a pair of socks. ‘ _So I was wrong, after all. I don’t . . . I don’t_ care,’ she scoffed.

Her youkai voice sighed. ‘ _That’s not entirely true. You might not have been wrong_.’

‘ _And just what does that mean?_ ’ she snapped.

‘ _It means just that. It also means that if he hasn’t quite come to terms with the idea that he’s your mate then he can’t have fully accepted you as yet_.’

‘ _Oh, well, that’s much better_ ,’ she thought sourly. ‘ _Anyway, it’s not true. I mean, Grandpa said, himself, that he hadn’t figured it out until it was almost too late_.’

‘ _No, what your grandfather said was that he knew it long before that; he simply thought that if he didn’t say the words out loud that it wasn’t a done deal. With as messed up as Griffin can be at times, do you really think that he’s even come close to realizing it on his own yet?_ ’

That made her feel a little better, though in actuality it wasn’t by much. Even if her youkai’s words were true, she just wasn’t sure how she’d be able to make him understand, anyway. He was just a little too stubborn, and she . . . well, she was pretty strapped as far as ideas went.

“—Are you listening to a damn thing I’ve been saying?”

Blinking quickly to pull herself out of her reverie, Isabelle pushed herself to her feet and stepped out from behind the screen. “I was trying not to,” she admitted. “Is it still the same drivel?”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t just say that I’ve been talking drivel,” he remarked mildly.

“If you say so, Mamoruzen,” she quipped, heading out of the bedroom to brush her teeth.

He followed her, leaning casually in the bathroom doorway with his hands stuffed into his pockets and a ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ expression on his face that Isabelle did her level best to ignore. “So what you’re telling me is that your bear is a liar _and_ a baka.”

That earned him a menacing glower that would have been much more effective if she didn’t have a toothbrush sticking out of her mouth. “Ut up,” she grumbled.

Gunnar snorted. “Keh! Any man who would be fool enough to let a woman like you out of his sight is a baka,” he insisted with a shake of his head.

She supposed she ought to be flattered at Gunnar’s obvious praise, but she just couldn’t muster that sort of emotion. Still she couldn’t help but feel irritation toward her cousin and his less-than-enthusiastic assessment of Griffin’s behavior.

She’d spent the first couple of days after the forced separation being angry as hell at the bear, of course. She hadn’t really done anything to warrant his absolutely unfathomable behavior, after all, had she? She sighed. It had taken a couple more days before she was willing to listen to her youkai and the chiding that she knew deep down she deserved. After all, she knew damn well that Griffin really hadn’t been ready for everything that had happened, and as wonderful as it had been, she also had to admit that maybe she’d expected it, at least on some level when she woke up in the morning only to find that he was still gone . . .

And she really couldn’t fault him, could she? She knew deep down that whatever it was that haunted Griffin—whatever had befallen his family—it wasn’t a pleasant memory for him, and after having lived with it for more centuries than she cared to consider, maybe he’d made it into a much larger thing that it ever should have been. But she knew, too, that her kind—youkai in general—tended to take certain incidences far worse than humans. The perceived inability to protect one’s own . . . it was one of the gravest, one of the most wretched things to deal with, and Griffin . . .

She grimaced, spitting toothpaste into the sink and deliberately taking her time rinsing her mouth thoroughly. She knew full well that he did blame himself for whatever had happened, and it didn’t really matter to her in the end so long as she could eventually make him understand that he was certainly not to blame.

But how to do that when he’d stubbornly forced her out of his life? She’d already tried banging on his door for nearly an hour just yesterday, and she’d known full well that he was home at the time. She could sense him there, but in true Griffin-fashion, he refused to open the door. That was the main reason she’d gone home, only to find Froofie sitting three feet from the door where he refused to budge for longer than it took to let him outside to do his business before he returned to his vigil, whining softly now and again, as though he wondered just when Griffin was coming to get them.

So she’d ended up drinking almost three bottles of wine and flicking a laser pointer around the living room, much to the pleasure of the kitty that Isabelle didn’t have the heart to give a proper name. She’d tried, damn it. She’d tried for nearly three hours to come up with a suitable name, but all she could think of was the one Griffin had suggested, even if it was entirely inappropriate . . .

Hell, she’d even ignored the phone call from her father. She’d reached for the cell phone only to stop as she frowned at the name written in kanji on her caller ID. He’d have been understanding, certainly, but . . .

But she also knew Izayoi Kichiro well enough to know that he would also feel badly; probably badly enough to want to try to ‘fix things’ for her, and as much as she hated the awful truth, there were things that she just couldn’t rely on her father to fix.

Heaving a sigh as she dried her face with a soft, fluffy towel, Isabelle studiously avoided Gunnar’s apt gaze, dropping the towel on the counter before rummaging through a drawer for her hair brush.

The standoff had to end sometime, didn’t it, and when it did . . .

Eyes darkening as a new resolve entered her expression, Isabelle yanked the brush through her hair, ignoring the snarls and tangles inspired by yet another sleepless night.

When it did, the stubborn man was going to listen to her whether he liked it or not.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Bas rubbed his forehead and sighed as he tried to figure out exactly why the documents in front of him didn’t make sense. It was as though something was missing: something simple that he just kept overlooking, and that sort of feeling was enough to irritate the crap out of him.

He’d been staring at the same documents for the last three days and hadn’t figured it out, and normally he’d ask Gunnar to take a look at the file to get a fresh set of eyes on it, but they’d had unexpected leads in about four of the unsolved cases that they’d been working on, and because of that, they were already spread thin enough. Besides that, Gunnar would very likely make some off-color comment about Bas being all brawn and no brain which would only lead to Bas’ offer to take it outside, and of course, Gunnar never backed down from a challenge of that nature. By the end of it, they’d have spent the better portion of the work day beating the hell out of each other and without cracking open the file even once.

He sighed, gaze shifting to the snapshot of Sydnie, and he smiled. At least she made him feel better, he supposed. ‘ _Maybe_ ,’ he thought, checking his watch with a flick of his wrist: nearly three o’clock in the afternoon, ‘ _I_ _should call it a day_ . . .’

The peep of his cell phone cut through his musings, and he reached for it, grateful for whatever distraction it would offer.   “Zelig,” he said without bothering to check the caller ID. It was his private number, so whoever it was, he figured it’d be good enough.

“Hey, Bas.”

Bas sat back, dropping his ink pen on the open file as a trace smile broke over his features. “Gavin. How’s Jilli?”

Gavin sighed. “Jilli? She’s fine . . . fine . . .”

His smile faded at the wariness in Gavin’s tone coupled with the fact that the youkai was trying to keep his voice down, too. “What’s going on?” Bas asked cautiously.

“Well, see—Just a second.”

Bas grunted acknowledgement as the sounds on the other end of the call were suddenly muffled, undoubtedly by Gavin’s hand over the telephone receiver. “Jilli, why don’t you go take a bath? Relax a little . . .”

He could hear Jillian’s intonation even if he couldn’t make out the words.

“Yeah, I’ll come in when I’m off the phone,” he promised her. “Sorry about that,” he apologized, uncovering the receiver once more. “Anyway, I was just wondering . . . I mean, I know you said before that you can’t really trace Avis’ restraint, but . . .”

Bas scowled when Gavin trailed off. “But . . .?” he prompted.

Gavin sighed. In the background, Bas could hear the scrape of a sliding door opening then closing again, and the sounds of a busy city filtered over the line. “But,” Gavin went on slowly, “We’ve been here for two weeks, and he hasn’t been home once.”

“Really,” Bas mumbled. It wasn’t a question.

“Nope, and, well, you know Jilli . . .”

Bas grimaced, gripping his forehead with his free hand and rubbing furiously. “I’ll have Dad check into it, but like I said before . . . those things aren’t designed to keep him from leaving his home. They’re only set to alert us if he were to try to leave the country.”

“And if he had, then I’m sure that Cain would have heard about it by now.”

“At the very least,” Bas agreed, “and if he _did_ try, well . . .”

Gavin cleared his throat, understanding exactly what Bas hadn’t said. If Avis had tried to leave the country, he’d be dead by now . . . “Yeah.”

“Maybe he went on vacation or something. Did you guys tell him that you were flying in?”

“To be honest, no . . . I mean, Jilli left a few messages on his voicemail, but she never talked directly to him.”

“Mm,” Bas intoned. “Maybe you should see if you can’t get her to come back home, at least until we ascertain Avis’ whereabouts.”

“Easier said than done,” Gavin said with another sigh. “You know how stubborn she can be, right?”

Bas smiled wanly. It was more that he knew how big a sucker Gavin was whenever Jillian turned those big blue eyes of hers on him, but he kept that to himself. “Let me make a few phone calls. You’ll be waiting, I presume?”

“Thanks, Bas,” Gavin intoned.

Bas let out a deep breath as he clicked off his cell and stared at it for a long minute.

It was strange, damn it, and Gavin had been right to call, and it was true enough that Avis couldn’t have tried to leave the continent: he’d have been hunted down immediately, and Bas knew well enough that they would have heard about it long before now. Still, something seemed odd, didn’t it, and in the back of his mind, he couldn’t quite let go of the nagging feeling that something was out of whack . . .

But what . . .?

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Tapping the end of the silver pen against her lips, Myrna frowned at the neat stack of papers that she’d put in a binder for ease of reference. Slipping a slender claw under the next tab and flicking back the pages, she scanned that page, too, reading through the notes that she’d gathered together as one thing and one thing only crystallized in her mind. Attean Masta knew this man—this bear-youkai. He _had_ to. He’d been around that region far too long not to have run into him, at the very least, and while she would be the first to admit that the legends that she’d found couldn’t be called concrete evidence, the story Gunnar had regaled her after his return from New York City was . . .

Attean was lying to her, plain and simple, and if there was one thing that Myrna couldn’t tolerate, it was being lied to. The problem was getting him to admit as much without going into detail as to why she needed to know.

There was only one reason that a man like Attean would cover for Griffin Marin, as far as Myrna could tell. He had to be a damn good friend. Why else would he stick his neck so far out for Marin?

Masta was born and raised around Quebec, if memory served. Maria had mentioned it once before in passing, and Myrna knew damn well that Attean preferred to stay in that area.

Confronting Attean, however, would be a stupid move. She’d already talked to him once, and she’d gotten nowhere. There wasn’t a reason to believe that it would be any different if she tried again. If anything, it’d just make it worse, and that was something that Myrna really didn’t want . . .

Biting her lip, she reached for the telephone. ‘ _There’s more than one way to skin a cat, isn’t there?_ ’ she mused, hooking the receiver between her ear and her shoulder as she flipped through the Digidex for the number that she was looking for. She read it over once, twice, then punched it in with the tip of the pen.

“Hello?”

Breaking into a little smile as the warmth in Maria’s voice reached her through the phone line, Myrna chuckled. “Hello, yourself, Maria.”

“. . . Myrna?” Maria said, a hint of incredulity evident in her tone. “Myrna Loy?”

She laughed again. “The one and only.”

“Oh, my! It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“A little too long, if you ask me. How have you been?”

Maria laughed softly. “Attean and I are just fine, and you?”

“Eh, well, you know . . . still paying my dues, but not so bad.”

“Oh, right . . . Attean mentioned that you’d been . . . detained . . .” she said, trying to find a delicate way to describe Myrna’s incarceration.

“No need to doll it up for me.”

“Hmm,” Maria drawled. “So is there a reason that you called?” she asked though not in an unfriendly way.

“Actually, there is,” she allowed, biting her lip for a moment before pressing on. “I’ve been looking into some legends lately.”

“Legends? Aren’t those a little fanciful for a just-the-facts-kind of woman like you?” Maria teased.

Myrna laughed, pushing herself out of her chair and shuffling off toward the kitchen to fetch a bottle of water. “Oh, I think I’m mellowing in my old age.”

Maria laughed, too. “I’d hardly call you old, Myrna, but why would you call me about legends?”

It took a moment for Myrna to organize her words well enough to give the overall impression of nonchalance she was gunning for. “Well, interestingly enough, they seem to originate up near Quebec, and I know you’d said once before that you and Attean were originally from that area . . .”

“Legends around . . . Quebec?” she repeated. Myrna thought she heard a hint of reticence in Maria’s tone but couldn’t be sure. “I . . . I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I can try . . .”

“Well, it’s a long shot, of course, but there are a couple that I read that seem to contradict themselves . . .”

“Oh?”

“Mm,” Myrna said, breaking the seal around the water bottle’s cap and taking a sip. “It’s about this . . . this mountain man, I guess you could say. I mean, the description was just that he was a giant of a man, and according to the one legend, he lured a group of unsuspecting children into the forest and ate them.”

“Ate them,” Maria repeated tightly. “And you honestly think that one is true?”

“No, not really, but there was another that described a similar man who would come in the night and take away naughty children, and they were never heard from again.”

Maria uttered a terse little laugh. “Sounds a bit farfetched, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” Myrna agreed lightly. “Interesting, though . . . They say that this man could transform into a beast—a great, hulking beast absolutely covered with shaggy fur and crisscrossed with these hideous, jagged scars.”

“That’s just . . . that’s crazy.”

“I thought so, too, at first, but then I got to thinking about it, and it’s possible if the man were youkai or something, right?”

“. . . Youkai . . .”

Narrowing her gaze as she hurried back to her desk once more, Myrna felt the strange sense of triumph starting to creep into her psyche. She really was right, after all. Maria knew something, and Myrna was determined to find out what it was. “I mean, think about it: if the man _were_ youkai, he would absolutely be able to transform into a beast.”

Maria forced a high-pitched laugh. “I think you’re grasping at straws,” she said.

“Possibly. Still, the thing that confuses me is that there is another legend, too, but it’s so different from the others that it makes me wonder whether it’s even more of an exaggeration . . .”

“What’s the other one?” Maria asked slowly, reluctantly.

Myrna took a moment to swallow more water before going on. “Well, there’s one about a group of children who got caught in a cabin while the forest burned around them.”

“Cave,” Maria said quietly.

“Come again?”

She cleared her throat. “I said it was a cave. W— _they_ —were being suffocated by smoke . . .”

“I think you might be right . . . I think it _was_ a cave . . .”

“It was,” Maria insisted.

Myrna nodded. “Mhmm . . . Anyway, they say that this huge . . . animal . . . broke through some burning trees that were blocking the entrance just in time to rescue the children. Almost makes him out to be a saint, really . . . but you know, I’ve got to admit, that story seems even more farfetched than the first one. He’d have to be a mighty big animal . . . maybe a bull-youkai or a—”

“A bear,” Maria ventured.

“Or a bear,” Myrna allowed. “Still, is anyone ever really _that_ good? That selfless? To rush headlong into a burning forest just to save some children . . .”

Maria didn’t answer right away. “Why? I mean, I-I would believe that story before I’d believe that he was a monster. Maybe someone he . . . he cared about was trapped in there, as well. Maybe that’s the reason he wanted to save them . . . Those other stories were just . . . things that mothers tell children to make them behave; that’s all.”

Myrna arched an eyebrow at the absolute hostility in Maria’s voice; at the complete strength of conviction. “You almost sound like you knew this person,” she mused.

“Well, I—no,” she blurted. “It’s just a story, after all, but even so, the version of it that I heard was . . . was that the bear _saved_ the woman and children and who was trapped inside the cave.”

“Right, right,” Myrna said quickly, positive beyond a shadow of a doubt that Maria did, indeed, know the youkai in question. “I never said there was a woman trapped in the cave.”

“Oh, w—I . . . There was. In the version of the story that I heard, there was.”

Myrna uttered a soft laugh. “It’s just a legend, right, Maria?”

Maria gripped the receiver so tightly that it groaned in her hands. “R-right . . . just a . . . a legend.”

“Hmm.”

“You know, I-I hate to cut you off, Myrna, but I just remembered that I had a few errands to run this afternoon . . . But I’m glad you called, and I’ll be sure to give Attean your regards.”

“You do that,” Myrna agreed, satisfied that she’d gotten the proof she’d been after. Dropping the receiver into the cradle, she sank down in the desk chair as an absolutely smug smile spread over her features.

She was still grinning as the security lock on the door released seconds before Gunnar stepped into her quarters. “You’re smiling like the cat that ate the canary,” he ventured, eyeing her carefully before picking up the file off her desk and sifting through the pages. “Why?”

Shifting her gaze to the size, she licked her lips and shrugged. “I think I’ve gotten a break on the Marin case.”

Chin snapping up, eyes brightening, burning like molten gold, Gunnar tossed the file back onto the desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you mean?”

“I found someone who knows him.”

“He admitted it?”

“ _She_ , and not exactly.”

Gunnar sighed and shook his head, his cautious optimism fading quickly. “Damn it–”

“However, she did verify one thing.”

Rubbing his forehead in a completely exasperated sort of way, Gunnar didn’t even bother to glance at her. “What’s that?”

“The story your girlfriend’s mother told her is true, and what’s more? I think this woman I just talked to . . . I think she might have been in that cave, too.”

“Really.”

“Mhmm . . . it makes sense, doesn’t it? Her mate was covering for Marin when I talked to him before, and he wouldn’t do that if he didn’t have a vested interest in Marin, to start with. If she was in that cave, and Marin was a good friend of theirs, it stands to reason that he would do everything within his power to save her, don’t you think?”

Gunnar thought that over for several seconds before pinning Myrna with a probing look. “What else can you find out?”

Her grin widened just a trace as she leaned back in her chair. “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Griffin let out a deep breath and squeezed his eyes closed against the throbbing cadence that echoed through his head. He’d lost track of time as he sat at the desk trying to plod through the translation. For reasons that he didn’t quite understand, he felt driven—absolutely compelled—to complete it quickly.

Maybe it was the feeling that everything in his life had come down to this, and maybe it was the deep-rooted understanding that his time was running out. He’d known that from the moment he’d read Isabelle’s name on his student roster, hadn’t he? Somehow he’d just . . . known . . .

And that was fine, too, wasn’t it? Being called forth to account for his actions was something that he’d known would happen one day, and if he were truly honest with himself, he’d have to admit that he was ready—more than ready. Tired of hiding and dwelling in the shadows, trying not to draw any notice . . . it was wearing thin on him. He’d always known that it eventually would, but if he could do this one thing for her—for Isabelle—then it’d be worth it in the end.

The incessant tick of the clock on the mantle was his only solace in the quiet that her departure had left behind. The void that engulfed his home never failed to make him wince whenever he stepped through the door after spending the day at the University or with the children in the preschool . . . Spending countless hours sitting at the desk as he tried to make sense of the garble of languages and dialects, he’d somehow believed that he could immerse himself in that. He’d tried to lie to himself; to tell himself that he wouldn’t miss her nearly as much if he wasn’t thinking about her, and yet . . .

And yet that was impossible when everywhere he looked, he could see lingering traces of her youki; could hear the faintest stirrings of her laughter. It had managed to permeate the walls, filling the infrastructure of his home with the very essence of her until it wasn’t just his home any longer but had become _their_ home; _their_ place, and now . . .

And now it felt so desperately empty.

Grimacing as he shoved away from the desk and hauled himself to his feet, he grasped his shoulder and extended his arm, rotating it slowly as the grimace gave way to a grunt of pain.

Glancing at the clock, he shook his head. Not quite midnight yet. Though his body was weary, his brain was not, and therein laid the crux of his trouble. As exhausted as he may be physically, he would not go to sleep no matter how hard he tried. No, he’d just spend hours staring at the darkened ceiling trying not to think about Isabelle—the feel of her lips on his, the caress of her skin, the soft little sounds that still clung to his mind . . .

Jerking on the faucet handle with a trembling hand, Griffin filled a glass and gulped the water down. He’d told himself over and over that dwelling on that night was the worst thing that he could do. Too bad his thoughts weren’t complying. Every day seemed to get just a little worse in that respect.

He’d almost broken down the first night after she’d gone. He’d been foolish enough to think that he could go into her bedroom without being tormented by memories, and the lingering smell of her—of them—that hung in the air like perfume. He hadn’t really thought about it at the time. He was drawn to the room like a moth to a flame, compelled by the debilitating need to be reminded of the beauty that was out of his reach. Sitting on the edge of the bed as he had done so many nights in the past, he’d almost panicked at the idea of never seeing her again. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt so despondent; so alone, and he’d almost given to the desire to go to her, to drag her back if he had to.

It was telling, wasn’t it? Try as he might, he really couldn’t recall having quite this way ever before. He’d only recently come to realize that even after the loss of his family so very long ago that the other emotions he’d felt at that time had overshadowed the loneliness. The guilt, the anger, the consuming desire to visit his revenge upon those who had done them ill hadn’t even come close to this; not really. Didn’t they say that anger made a strange bedfellow? He supposed that there was a measure of truth in that. This time, though, there was no anger to buffer away the more hurtful emotions, no sense of anything other than the bleakness of inevitability that pained him more than the righteous indignation that had carried him through centuries at a time.

Then she’d showed up, standing outside for what had seemed like hours, and God, he’d wanted to open that door if only to see her face. It had taken every last ounce of willpower that he possessed to keep himself in check. He’d stood there, fingers curled around the door knob and trembling in his effort to resist, but when he’d finally given in and thrown open the door, he’d been too late. Standing there watching as her car disappeared around the corner, he’d told himself that it was better that way, and he’d almost believed it—almost.

The grating sound of the telephone cut through his reverie, and with a start, he set the empty glass on the towel beside the sink and frowned at the sudden way his heart lurched in his chest. Despite the deep-seated knowledge that it couldn’t be Isabelle, he couldn’t brush aside the need to hurry to intercept the phone call.

Grabbing the receiver in the middle of the fourth ring, Griffin hesitated before lifting the device to his ear. “H-hello?” he mumbled cautiously.

“Griffin, how are you?” Attean Masta greeted.

“Oh, uh, fine, I suppose . . .”

“You sound disappointed.”

He made a face. He really hadn’t meant to sound so transparent. “N-no, not really.”

“Can you speak freely?”

Scowling at the strange sense of foreboding in Attean’s almost reluctant manner, Griffin rubbed his forehead and stumbled toward the recliner. “I guess.”

“Good . . . good . . .”

“What’s this about?”

Sighing heavily at Griffin’s blunt question, Attean took a moment to compose his thoughts before speaking. “Maria got a call today from an old acquaintance. You wouldn’t know her, but she works for the Zelig, in a manner of speaking.”

“The same woman who called you before?”

“Yes. Anyway, she suspects that we know you. Maria didn’t _confirm_ her suspicions, but . . .”

Dragging a hand over his face, Griffin drew a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter,” he remarked. “Just . . . just do me a favor and hold her off for a week or two.”

“A week or two?” Attean repeated. “I’ll tell her nothing, but appease my curiosity. Why the timetable?”

Staring into the rollicking flames dancing on the hearth, Griffin bit his lip, considered his options. There weren’t many, and Attean was far too clever to bother with trying to cover everything up. “I told you about the research, right?”

‘ _The uppermost part of the flames . . . It’s the same color as Isabelle’s eyes . . . her hair_ . . .’

“Griffin?” Attean’s voice cut into his musings.

He shook himself and shifted his gaze off the fireplace as unwelcome heat crept into his cheeks. “What?”

Attean uttered a terse grunt. “I said, you’re talking about the research you’ve been translating for your Isabelle, yes?”

Letting the ‘your Isabelle’ comment slide for the moment, Griffin nodded. “I think I can finish it up in a week, maybe two.”

“And then?”

“And then, what?”

Attean clucked his tongue in reproach. “What will you do after you finish this translation?”

“That’s all she needed me for,” he mumbled, wincing at the callousness of his own assessment.

“So she is not special to you,” Attean concluded in a tone that stated that he didn’t believe Griffin.

“It doesn’t matter,” Griffin muttered, his voice low and harsh.

“How do you figure that?”

Griffin sighed, letting his head fall back against the chair. “It just doesn’t,” he insisted.

“Why?” Attean challenged. “Because you don’t want it to matter?”

“No,” Griffin growled then grimaced. “It’s only . . . She’s just . . . _we’re_ just . . . too different.”

Heaving a long sigh, Attean’s response was slow. “That’s what I used to say,” he admitted softly. “Maria . . . Maria believed otherwise.”

“Isabelle isn’t anything like Maria, and even then . . .” Griffin trailed off, raking an exasperated hand through his shaggy hair. “She’s . . . she’s an Izayoi.”

“Izayoi . . . ? You don’t say . . .”

“Yeah, I do say,” he said then heaved a heavy sigh.

“Afraid that you will not measure up to her family?”

Attean’s bald statement only served to darken Griffin’s already formidable scowl. “That’s hardly the issue,” he grumbled.

“Then what is?”

The scowl gave way to an exaggerated grimace, and he shook his head. He hated to admit it; he really did. It wasn’t as if he were afraid of her family, but the truth of it was that he just didn’t really care to come face-to –face with certain members of it . . . “Her grandfather . . . one of her grandfathers . . . is the tai-youkai.”

“Which tai-youkai?”

Griffin snorted. “The only one that matters.”

“I see,” Attean uttered. “She’s the Zelig’s granddaughter . . . Well, that does put a bit of a spin on things, doesn’t it?”

“Anyway, just . . . I need a couple weeks; that’s all.”

Attean considered Griffin’s statement as though he were trying to decide what to say. Clearing his throat, he sighed softly, drumming his claws against a table. “You know I never asked you anything about your past or where you came from. I’m not asking now, for that matter, but . . .”

Grimacing—he’d known that this day would eventually come—Griffin rubbed his eye and waited.

“But,” Attean went on, carefully measuring his words, “it seems that whatever it is has come back to haunt you, no?”

“It isn’t . . . It’s not like that,” Griffin mumbled. “I don’t want you to cover for me. I just need another couple weeks.” He swallowed hard. “Please.”

“To finish translating the research, yes?”

“. . . Yes.”

The clink of shifting ice cubes followed by the definite thump of a glass being set aside filtered through the telephone line. “I see. You know, I do not believe I ever properly thanked you,” he remarked, a hint of nostalgia creeping into his tone.

Griffin grunted, unsure what Attean was getting at and even more uncertain as to whether or not he really wanted to hear it. “For what?”

“You saved her, if you’ll recall,” he said. “The burning forest . . .”

‘ _The cave_ ,’ Griffin realized suddenly. “Oh, that . . . she was the only one who could cook,” he grumbled.

Attean chuckled. “Cooking. Of course,” he allowed. “Maria always felt badly for that.”

“For what?”

“You burned your hands, remember? You couldn’t properly use them for weeks afterward.”

“Oh, that,” Griffin allowed. “I . . . I forgot about that . . .”

“Yes, well, she has not.”

“It’s fine,” he insisted, uncomfortable with the praise. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Attean’s chuckle seemed to contradict Griffin, but he let the subject drop. “So what will you do after you finish the translation?” he asked instead.

The question gave Griffin pause. It was something that he had been trying to avoid, wasn’t it? “I don’t know,” he lied, unwilling to voice the thoughts that had been creeping into his head of late.

“I see,” Attean remarked, but his tone seemed to say something entirely different: ‘ _That’s isn’t true. . . what is it that you don’t want to say?_ ’ He sighed instead. Attean had never been one to pry. “You’ll figure it out, I’m sure. Anyway, I’ll see what I can do about stalling Myrna for time if she calls again.”

“Thanks,” Griffin said, hauling himself to his feet to hang up the receiver.

That _was_ the million dollar question, wasn’t it? What would he do once the research was translated? As much as he’d like to think that he could simply go back to living his life the same as he had done for years, he wasn’t so certain that it was possible.

It wasn’t the first time in the past couple weeks that he’d felt like a trapped animal. No, he felt like the invisible walls were closing in, didn’t he . . .? He felt like those walls were slowly but steadily collapsing on him; that the box that he called his security was slowly falling apart . . .

It really was just a matter of time, and he knew it, even if he didn’t want to think about it. Just a matter of time before everything . . .

He winced, dropping the receiver into the cradle and shuffling over to the window.

It was just a matter of time before his lifetime of hiding came crashing down on his head.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
>  _... My … Isabelle_ ** _...  
> _**


	44. Unrequited

Cain Zelig blinked and glanced around the canvas of the portrait he’d been working on to stare at his granddaughter as he tried to discern whether or not she was being serious. She _looked_ like she was, as far as he could tell. Golden eyes narrowed as she scowled out the window at the otherwise gray February skies over Maine, she looked just as irritated as her words had led him to believe. “I thought you loved . . . love,” Cain remarked mildly, setting the fine brush aside and reaching for a smudgy cloth.

She wrinkled her nose and snorted, crossing her arms over her chest as she wrapped her feet around the spindly legs of the stool she was perched on. “I changed my mind,” she stated. “It sucks, and everyone who celebrates it sucks, too.”

Chuckling softly since her sulky tone assured him that she was just venting, Cain wiped his fingers off, one by one as he slowly shook his head. “Sucks, eh?”

She nodded, tucking an errant strand of somewhat dull hair behind her ear, her bottom lip sticking out in a decidedly petulant sort of way. “Yes.”

“I see,” he hedged, tossing the cloth onto the worktable and scratching his shoulder as he shuffled toward his granddaughter. It struck him not for the first time, how very closely she resembled her mother, and he smiled. “So I take it you don’t have a boy to make chocolate for this year?”

She wrinkled her nose again and peered up through her thick fringe of eyelashes. “I stopped giving chocolates to boys long ago, Grandpa,” she chided.

“Why’s that?”

She shrugged belligerently. “No one worth giving them to.”

Cain grimaced and sank down on the stool beside her. “That was a bit harsh, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe,” she grudgingly allowed. “Why are guys such jerks?”

“Uh . . . We—jerks, huh? I . . . don’t know. Must be something in the genetics,” Cain teased, trying to coax his granddaughter out of her current mood.

She almost smiled—almost. Shaking her head and ducking her chin, she stared at her hands in what had to be the most pathetic fashion that Cain had ever seen. “Well, you’re not a jerk, Grandpa,” she allowed thoughtfully, “but the rest of them? They can all get in a boat together and row straight off to hell.”

“I can stay behind?” he deadpanned with a chuckle. “Your grandmother will be happy to hear that.”

Isabelle let out a deep breath, and just for a moment, she looked much younger than she really was. “I suppose Papa could stay, too . . . and Grandpa InuYasha . . . all the men in the family, really—well, maybe not Mamoruzen . . .”

Cain did laugh at that. “Don’t be too hasty to toss all men into the fiery bowels of hell, okay?” he asked, leaning to the side and slipping an arm around her shoulders to pull her in for a kiss on her forehead. “Maybe there’s room on that boat for your father and grandfather, though . . .”

She shot him a chagrined look that was completely undermined by the trace quirking of her lips. “They’re very good men, I’ll have you know.”

“So your grandmother tells me. She’s been brainwashed, and I think you have been, too.”

“Grandpa . . .”

Cain sighed and shook his head. “So you want to tell me why you suddenly believe that all men are jerks?”

Isabelle wrinkled her nose and untangled herself from the stool, pushing herself off the seat and wandering over to the worktable. “No reason,” she hedged, kicking out her foot as she leaned to grab the paint cloth that Cain had dropped earlier.

“You don’t look like it’s no reason,” he chided.

Isabelle shrugged and plodded back, twisting the cloth around her fingers. “Grandpa . . . when did you know?”

“Know what?” he queried as she dabbed at a paint smear on his cheek.

“You know: that grandma was the one. I know you’ve said that you knew it on some level long before you admitted it to yourself, but . . . but how long?”

Cain frowned slightly, carefully regarding Isabelle’s face. Something in her tone worried him; something in her aura . . . Her eyes weren’t sparkling the way they normally did, and he thought that perhaps she looked a little peaked. Then again, he could simply be reading something into it that wasn’t there, at all. He would be the first to admit that there were moments when he tended to be a bit paranoid when it came to the subject of mates.

But her hair really was a bit on the dull side though it could well have been that she simply hadn’t washed it in a couple days. He couldn’t rightly see whether or not she’d lost any weight, though, hidden as she was in the copious tent of a jogging suit that looked to be about four sizes too large, anyway. She reached a little higher, this time targeting a smear on his forehead, and Cain was relieved to see that her watch still fit her wrist perfectly.

“When did I know . . .?” he mused, momentarily satisfied that she wasn’t on death’s proverbial doorstep, so to speak. “Hard to say . . . It wasn’t like my youkai blood just stated it one day. It kind of just . . . hinted at it, I guess.” Smiling rather abashedly, he shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know that I would have listened to it if it had said as much earlier on . . .” Slipping her a sidelong glance, Cain’s smile turned sheepish. “Guess I’m kind of a jerk, too.”

“No,” she said slowly, pinning him the expression that he remembered from when she had been a little girl—no more than three, maybe—when he’d caught her smeared from head to foot with pink acrylic paint that she sneaked out of his art supply cabinet. She’d wanted to be a fairy, she’d said . . . Back then, he’d been the one to wipe her face clean . . . “You didn’t know, right? Uncle never told you how those things worked . . .”

“That’s not really an excuse,” he chided, taking the cloth from her hand and tossing it toward the table. “You going to tell me about your . . . jerk?”

Her expression softened a little, a smile that was tinged with sadness touching her lips. It was a relief to see a hint of a sparkle creep back into her gaze, and Cain frowned for a moment, unable to fully repress his irritation that anyone would dare hurt one of his own. But she didn’t notice the look—probably a good thing, considering, and just as quickly as the weak smile had come, it dissipated as she levered herself back onto her stool, bringing her feet up to perch on the edge as she wrapped her arms around her ankles, dropping her chin onto her knees in a decidedly dejected sort of way. “He isn’t a jerk,” she confessed in a whisper, her cheeks pinking as though she were ashamed of herself for having said as much. “Not really . . .”

“I didn’t think so,” Cain allowed. He might not completely agree with Isabelle, but she didn’t look like she wanted to hear that, either . . .

She sighed. “It’s my fault more than his . . . I mean, I _knew_ , but . . .”

“Knew what?”

She grimaced and turned her head, resting her temple against her knees as she studied Cain’s face, her eyes slowly shifting as she tried to discern what he was thinking. “I knew that he wasn’t ready, but I just . . . I wanted to . . . _show_ him, you know? I wanted him to understand that he wasn’t alone, or at least that he didn’t have to _be_ alone anymore . . .”

Cain’s brain seemed to slow to a crawl as the implications of Isabelle’s statement slowly sank in. It was purely the grandfather part of his mind that wanted to overact, but he managed to rein that in well enough. “You . . . slept . . . with him?”

“Y-Yeah,” she breathed. “Maybe not for the right reasons, but I . . . I didn’t know what else to do.”

Cain sighed and rubbed his forehead, wishing that she was still little; that he could tell her that she wasn’t allowed to do such things only to send her off to play with her dolls in the quiet of the bedroom that he and Gin had so painstakingly decorated just for her to use whenever she came to visit. Even as that notion dissipated, though, another face—an entirely different time and a wholly different place—came to mind. Was that what Gin had been thinking on that night so long ago? When she’d known that he was leaving with the coming of the morning’s light, and all she’d wanted was just one night . . .? And he’d been the selfish one back then, thinking only of the toll that her simple request was taking on him. The crux of it was the same, wasn’t it? In Gin’s mind, hadn’t she been trying to tell him the same damn things? That he wasn’t alone anymore; that he didn’t have to _be_ alone anymore . . . “You’re a lot like your grandma, did you know?” Cain murmured, his voice tinged with a thickness that he couldn’t suppress.

Isabelle lifted her chin, looked away from Cain as though embarrassed by what she considered to be the highest of compliments that her grandfather could give. “I’m not,” she muttered, shaking her head slowly. “Grandma's entirely unselfish, and—”

“And imperfect,” Cain interrupted though not unkindly. “We all are.”

“I thought you were supposed to think that your mate was perfect,” Isabelle teased.

Cain chuckled. “She’s a lot closer to perfect than I’ll ever be.”

She sighed and untangled her legs before slipping off the stool again. “I’m going to go home. I’ve got a container of Double Chocolate Death-Bomb ice cream in my freezer, and it’s calling my name.”

Cain rolled his eyes but stood up to hug Isabelle tight. “You sure? You’re welcome to stay for dinner. Your grandmother would love to have you.”

She forced a smile and shook her head, rising up on her toes to brush a kiss over his cheek. “Thanks, but I’m sure that you don’t really want to have me hanging around on Valentine’s Day.”

“Make it sound like you’re a nuisance,” he mumbled. “You’re not, you know.”

“Sure, I am,” she argued lightly then cocked an eyebrow. “Did you buy Grandma one of those huge peanut butter cup hearts she loves?”

“Ten of them,” he replied.

“Ten?”

“Well, she’s not getting them all at one time, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

She did laugh at that, but Cain winced inwardly at the hollow sound of it.   “Hold up,” he said, catching her arm before she could go. She stopped, and he held up a finger before striding away to the kitchenette. Cutting her a thick slice of the heart shaped red velvet Valentine’s Day cake that Gin had baked for him earlier, he carefully slipped it onto a plate and covered it with plastic wrap. “Here,” he said, shoving the plate into Isabelle’s hands as her mouth dropped open in mild shock. “What’s ice cream without cake?”

“Grandpa . . .”

Cain made a face. “Don’t let Bas see that, all right? He’s around here somewhere, I think . . .”

Her smile was much brighter, much to his relief, and she kissed his cheek again before turning to leave. She stopped in the doorway to cast him a jaunty wave, and Cain returned the gesture with a tender smile that only faded after she slipped out of the studio.

“ _When did you know . . . that grandma was the one . . .?_ ”

True enough, she looked fine. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something just wasn’t right as he realized a moment too late that he hadn’t taken the time to ask Isabelle what her ‘jerk’s’ name was . . . Of course he’d made damn sure that all of his children, and in turn, their children, understood how serious it was, to be certain that they didn’t mess around once they’d found their mates, but . . .

But what if the other person didn’t want to admit as much for whatever reason? That wasn’t something that Cain was willing to play around with, damn it.

Snatching his shirt off the back of another stool without breaking his stride, he headed out of the studio in the hopes that he could catch Isabelle before she left.

He almost collided with Bas as the latter came wandering out of the living room into the foyer with a folder in his hand. He skidded to a halt just in time to avoid the collision, though, as he shot his father a quizzical look. “Something up, Dad?”

Cain didn’t stop to talk to Bas, stepping over to the door and jerking it open. Isabelle’s car was gone, and he couldn’t help the irritated growl that spilled out of him as he pushed the door closed once more. “I don’t know,” he replied, scowling at the window beside the door.

“I see . . .” Bas remarked tentatively. “Hey, has the Australian tai-youkai’s office called back yet?”

Blinking, Cain shook his head. “Is he supposed to?”

“Yeah . . . I called him to ask if there was anything he could tell us on Avis’ whereabouts.”

“Oh, uh, no,” Cain replied absently, only halfway paying attention to his oldest son. “Bas?”

“Mm?”

Turning away from the window, Cain slipped the shirt on. “Has Isabelle mentioned anything to you about seeing someone?”

That got Bas’ attention quickly enough. Head snapping up, his eyes narrowed as he pondered his father’s question. “No . . .”

“Damn it,” Cain growled.

“Why?”

Shaking his head, Cain planted his hands on his hips and sucked in a cheek as he racked his brain in case she had mentioned him and it just hadn’t registered.

“Well, there _is_ that professor of hers,” Sydnie intoned as she slipped her arms around Bas’ waist and hugged him from behind.

“What’s that?” Bas demanded, arching an eyebrow as he craned his neck to look over his shoulder at his mate.

Sydnie wrinkled her nose and uttered a curt ‘hrumph’, obviously convinced that her mate simply didn’t pay enough attention to things around him. “Where have you _been_ , puppy?” she chided. “Isabelle’s had a thing for one of her college professors for years now.”

“She has?”

Sydnie snorted.

“What’s his name, do you know?” Cain cut in before the cat-youkai could reply.

Sydnie’s expression turned thoughtful as she considered the question. “Hmm,” she drawled, tapping a tapered claw against her lips. “Oh, what was that? Dr. Melvin? Martin . . .? I don’t remember, exactly,” she admitted with a shrug. “He taught old languages or something boring like that . . .”

“Well, there was a Dr. Marin who taught there when I was in school,” Bas remarked. “I think he taught some sort of linguistics course or other . . .”

“Marin,” Cain repeated, more to himself than to Bas or Sydnie. “Thanks.”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Gunnar slowly shook his head as he eyed the stacks of boxes littering Myrna’s living quarters. “Tell me again: just how did Ben manage to talk you into dealing with all this?”

Myrna uttered a terse grunt as she glanced at another document before feeding it into the scanner. “He’s got the gift of gab—something you’d do well to learn from him,” she muttered without looking up. “Why?”

Gunnar grinned lazily—little more than a slight quirking of one corner of his lips. “So I can file it away for future reference, of course.”

“Forget it, puppikins,” she mumbled. “It only works for _real_ men.”

“Hmm. If you weren’t old enough to be my mother, I might be offended by that.”

“Getting nasty now, are we?”

He chuckled and lifted a dusty old paper by one corner. “Absolutely not. Are you or are you not older than my darling mother?”

“Your darling mother must be a saint to put up with the likes of you—either that or she’s the devil incarnate to have given birth to hell-spawn like you . . .”

“She’s a saint, of course,” Gunnar insisted, scowling at the document in his hand. Dated the tenth of June, 1967, it was a memo regarding a youkai wanted for questioning in the disappearance of a couple of humans. “This is what he wants you to scan in?” he questioned.

Myrna glanced over and sighed. “Yep,” she said. “Boxes and boxes of memos and notes, and . . .”

“How far back are these dated?” he asked, not noticing when Myrna trailed off as he poked around in a few of the different boxes. “Some of this stuff looks like it might crumble if you try to run it through that scanner . . .”

“I’ve got the handheld one,” she remarked absently. “Gunnar . . .”

“Good,” he replied, lifting an old journal out of one of the boxes and scowling at the small cloud of dust it dislodged. “Looks like you’re going to need it.”

“Oh, my God . . .”

“Oh-your-God, what?”

She reached back and grabbed his sleeve. “Look at this.”

Jerking back as Myrna shoved a musty smelling leather-bound book under his nose, Gunnar spared a moment to cast the woman a droll glance before narrowing his eyes on the open pages. “What’s this?”

“One of Ben’s journals,” she replied.

He snorted, shoving the book back at Myrna. “His journal? And you honestly think that I want to read—?”

“Just read that page,” she insisted.

Gunnar snorted once more but lowered his gaze. It was Ben’s handwriting, no doubt about it. Centuries later, the youkai’s script hadn’t really changed at all. The black ink of a fountain pen was slightly faded but still quite legible, and it was the words that captured his attention.

 

 

‘ _The hunt for the unknown bear-youkai has stalled. The hunters sent to retrieve him for questioning have reported that they cannot find a trace of him. At this time I have little choice but to close the case. The odds that he survived are slim though I would have rested easier had they been able to verify this_ . . .’

 

 

Gunnar’s face contorted in a show of obvious disgust as he dropped the journal on the desk and brushed his hands together. “That proves nothing,” he growled.

“Doesn’t it?” Myrna challenged. “How many bear-youkai do you think are around, and of those bear-youkai, how many of them do you suppose is old enough to have been around back then? This entry is dated January 19, 1753.”

“And it _still_ means nothing,” he gnashed out from between clenched teeth.

“Sorry . . . am I interrupting?”

Gunnar whipped around at the intrusion in time to see Ben leaning in the doorway with two document boxes stacked in his arms.

Myrna snorted quietly. “Ben . . . just the man I was waiting for.”

“Oh, dear,” Ben deadpanned. “Do I want to know why?”

She broke into a small smile, standing up and turning around as Gunnar reached for her elbow. “I promised Isabelle,” he hissed in her ear.

“You did,” she agreed, her gaze flicking coolly over his features, “but I didn’t, and I’m sick of this stalemate.”

“Myrna—”

“I could come back later if you’re . . . busy . . .” Ben offered.

“You mentioned a bear-youkai in one of your journals,” she blurted before Gunnar could stop her. “Why were you hunting him?”

Ben looked puzzled for a moment as he considered Myrna’s words. “Was I?”

Ignoring the death-glare she was getting from Gunnar, she pulled her arm away and positively glided across the floor to Ben’s side. “Hmm, yes . . . Don’t play coy, Ben Philips.”

He chuckled at the chagrined expression on Myrna’s face. “I honestly don’t . . . wait . . . bear-youkai in my journal . . .?”

“Yes, a very old one: 1753.”

“Hmm, that _is_ old,” he agreed but narrowed his eyes on Myrna. He was far too good to let any sign of recognition slip by unnoticed. “Why do you want to know about him?”

She shrugged offhandedly, looking smugger by the moment as Gunnar’s expression grew blacker and blacker which should have served as a warning—if the damned woman would deign to notice. “Call it payment. You owe me for pawning off all your grunt work on me.”

Ben chuckled and lifted his eyebrows in half-hearted apology. “I am very sorry for that,” he allowed, sounding anything but sorry at all. “But there’s not much to tell. I imagine he died.”

She appeared to be considering that. Gunnar knew damn well that she was just playing coy. Grinding his teeth together to keep from saying something to make the entire situation look even more suspicious, he crossed his arms over his chest and waited to hear what she’d say next.

“Possibly, but you understand better than most: youkai don’t die so easily.”

Ben nodded slowly then shook his head with a shrug. “True enough, but he’d been injured quite badly. Besides, the hunters I sent out couldn’t find him—didn’t hear as much as a whisper of him, and I doubt that he’d have had an easy time hiding.”

“Why’s that?”

Pushing himself away from the door frame, he strode over and deposited the box on the floor near the desk. “He was covered with scars,” Ben remarked, nudging the boxes with his toe and stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Scars,” Gunnar cut in before Myrna could comment and ignoring the absolutely exultant expression on her face in the process.

Ben nodded, casting Gunnar a somewhat puzzled look. “Why?” Ben asked.

“Why were you hunting him?” Gunnar demanded, ignoring Ben’s question.

Ben didn’t answer right away, staring at Gunnar as a hint of suspicion swelled and thickened. Inclining his head as his lips pressed together in a thin line, he narrowed his eyes as though he were trying to make sense of something. “Do you . . . you know where he is?” he asked a little too casually.

“I might,” Gunnar replied slowly, carefully. “First . . . tell me what you know.”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Cain squinted at the small house numbers tacked over the porch and double checked the bit of paper where he’d hastily scribbled down the address before he’d left the mansion. ‘ _19786 Forest Lane_ ,’ he read. Set back from the road and partially obscured by a line of trees and surrounded by forest on the sides and beyond, the house blended in almost too well. He’d only noticed it because of the faint light glowing in the windows. Small, modest, and built of rough timber, it looked like a throwback to another time and wasn’t at all what Cain had expected for a man who had drawn Isabelle’s attention, but there was no doubt about it: it was definitely the right place.

He’d had to call in a couple of favors in order to get the address since his search on the internet had proven futile. The University of Maine didn’t have a picture of this Dr. Marin though he was listed in the faculty. In the end, it had taken a phone call to the head of the music department—a man who Cain knew just a little too well after having been called in a few times to curb his overly-rambunctious son, Evan when the miscreant was enrolled there for a couple years. Cain had made a few sizable donations to the department in order to keep Evan out of trouble, and in the end, the man had been more than willing to help Cain out.

Grimacing as he got out of the SUV, Cain heaved a sigh. There was a good chance that Isabelle wasn’t going to be pleased with his intervention, but that was just a chance that he was willing to take. After her visit, he wasn’t satisfied to sit back and wait. He figured he’d at least gauge the situation by meeting the man in question. He wasn’t there to threaten or anything like that, anyway. No, it was nothing more than a gentle reminder . . .

‘ _Nope, it’s meddling_ ,’ his youkai stated bluntly. ‘ _No use in trying to pretty it up, Zelig_.’

Cain heaved a sigh, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he shuffled toward the porch. ‘ _I’m her grandfather_ ,’ he thought with a scowl. ‘ _I have the right to be concerned_.’

There had been something about the look on Isabelle’s face when she’d asked him about mates, something that Cain just couldn’t shake off . . . If this guy was playing with her . . . God help him if he was. After all, Cain wasn’t there on a social call, and he certainly wasn’t there as the tai-youkai. He was Cain the grandfather, and he wasn’t leaving until he knew exactly what was going on one way or another.

Raising his fist, he knocked on the door and stepped back, scowl deepening as a surreal sense of unease crept up his spine. He didn’t feel as though there was any real danger, certainly, but he was hard pressed to define it, too . . .

Brushing aside the unreasonable feeling, he waited impatiently for Dr. Marin to answer the door.

After a couple minutes, Cain knocked again.

‘ _Maybe he’s not home_ . . .’ he thought then shook his head. No, he swore that he could sense someone inside.

The sudden light made him blink as the lamp beside the door blazed to life, and the thump against the door followed by the unmistakable click of a deadbolt lock being released drew Cain’s attention. He stepped back to wait. Very slowly, almost reluctantly, the door opened.

“Sorry to disturb you, Dr. Marin, but I wondered if . . . you . . .”

Cain trailed off and stumbled back a step as his gaze shifted away from the yard to the man—the bear-youkai—filling the doorway. Pale, almost peaked-looking, with eyes so dark that they looked black in the wan light, he stared back at Cain without blinking, and while he sensed no hostility from him, Cain couldn’t repress the odd chill that crashed over him in wave after unsettling wave.

A thousand thoughts—flashes of memory?—converged on him; an inane jumble that held no rhyme, no reason. Dappled sunlight filtering through a green canopy of leaves . . . the distant sound of a familiar voice that he couldn’t quite place . . . the stench of burning things as smoke wrung tears from him . . . flashes of light, crashes of thunder and the pitch black of night . . . the screech of horses echoing in his head so terribly that he had to smash his hands over his ears to escape the sound . . . soft yellow silk and a ruffle of lace . . . the curious eyes of a family of badgers . . . the coppery tinge of blood filling his mouth as a scream welled up somewhere deep inside him . . . a grassy knoll . . . a whispering stream . . . the slap of water that had lulled him to sleep . . . Half forgotten memories that made no sense at all, and the softest chime of a woman’s laughter that twisted and collapsed and grew into a harsh cry, a bellowing resonance grew louder and louder.

The pinpoints of light that gathered in the youkai’s eyes sent a shock through Cain, and while he couldn’t quite grasp why it was so, somewhere deep down, he understood. This man—Griffin Marin—Cain _knew_ him, didn’t he?

They stood for several minutes staring at one another without a word. In the bear-youkai’s eyes was unmistakable recognition and an underlying sense of inevitability, as though he’d known that this day would come, and yet . . .

And yet Cain, himself, could not comprehend a thing. Too many jumbled thoughts; too many forgotten emotions . . . in the end, it was the sound of Marin’s voice that snapped Cain out of his trance. “Zelig,” he said, his intonation no more than a low rumble.

“I . . . I know you,” Cain mumbled, narrowing his eyes as he tried to understand how it could be so.

Marin nodded tersely—a single jerk of his head. “Yes.”

Cain shook his head; retreated another step, mouth suddenly gone dry, hands shaking as he struggled for a semblance of calm. “C-Can you come with . . . me?”’ he rasped, his voice not registering as his own.

The bear-youkai stared at him for another minute then slowly nodded and turned around, trudging back into the house but leaving the door wide open.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Cain_** :  
>  _Wha-a-a-at?_


	45. Confusion

Ben Philips smiled as Gin Izayoi Zelig opened the door and greeted him with a warm grin followed in close order by a kiss on the cheek that was more of a flutter of her lips than anything else. “Hello, Ben! What brings you out at this time of day?”

He chuckled, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Your mate called me, of course,” he supplied. “Can’t very well ignore the tai-youkai, now can I?”

She rolled her eyes and waved a hand in dismissal. “But it’s Valentine’s Day! You should be spending the evening with your special someone, ne?”

He didn’t miss the hint of curiosity in her tone. “Perhaps, if there _was_ a special someone,” he replied easily enough. “Is Zelig home?”

“Hmm,” she said, tapping her index finger against her lips thoughtfully. “He came back a little while ago and popped into the kitchen long enough to let me know, but then he disappeared again . . . Maybe he’s in the studio?”

“Ah, well, I shan’t trouble you further, Gin,” he said. “I’ll find him.”

“All right,” she replied with a conspiratorial wink. “Would you mind letting him know that I’ll have dinner ready soon? You will stay for it, won’t you?”

“Uh, we’ll see,” he hedged.

Gin clucked her tongue but smiled happily before spinning around on her heel and hurrying off toward the kitchen.

Closing the door behind him, Ben’s smile faded quickly enough. Even in the foyer of the grand mansion, he could smell the unseen youkai, but if Gin had noticed, she hadn’t mentioned it . . . Not entirely surprising, though, since the woman tended to view it as Zelig’s business. To Ben’s knowledge, she simply never really asked too many questions about such things.

Ben frowned, wondering exactly how much Zelig knew or even understood, given the circumstances. It was telling, wasn’t it? Instead of taking Marin to the youkai special crimes headquarters that had special rooms set up for the interrogation and potential holding of suspect youkai, Zelig had opted instead to bring him to his home—something that Ben had never known Zelig to be lax in before. Exactly what was going on in his head? He’d sounded strange on the telephone—not surprising, all things considered, but still . . .

And where was Zelig? Even from his limited perspective at the moment, Ben could tell that the tai-youkai was not in his office where Marin currently was, but he was close. Ben set his thin black leather attaché case on the floor beside the table and stuffed his hands into his pockets before wandering down the narrow hallway that cut around the thick wooden staircase. In older days, this part of the main floor would likely be considered servants' quarters. The rooms were smaller and much more modest, favoring function over form. Gin tended to use them for storage these days, and yet it was to these rooms that Ben was drawn by Zelig’s youki.

Down the hallway to the small open sunroom he walked, spotting Cain leaning against the lattice-work frame. Elbow raised, forehead resting on his forearm, he seemed a million miles away. “Zelig,” he said quietly.

He made no move to indicate that he’d heard Ben at all. So lost in contemplation that Ben had to clear his throat a couple of times to draw Zelig’s attention, he didn’t turn to face Ben as he pushed himself away from the window and patted his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. “I know him, Ben,” Zelig finally said, his voice low, rasping, raw. “I . . . I don’t know how, but I . . . I do.”

“You do,” Ben agreed, careful to keep his tone casual. “I’m surprised that he’s still alive.”

“Why . . .? Shouldn’t he be?”

Lifting his eyebrows, he sighed softly. “I don’t know if I’d say ‘shouldn’t’, but the last time I saw him, he was in pretty bad shape.”

Taking his time in lighting a cigarette, Zelig let his head fall back, releasing a sigh full of smoke in the air, watching in silence as it thinned and dissipated. “Do I _want_ to know how I know him?” he asked at length, half-turning, holding up the cigarette and examining the burning end with absolute concentration.

Frowning at the reluctance in Zelig’s voice, Ben took his time answering. He sounded so odd, even to Ben’s ears. What was it about Zelig’s bearing that brought to mind a child? he wondered absently. There was a certain susceptibility that reminded Ben of another time, another place, and a young boy who hadn’t really been old enough to understand a damn thing . . . “Let me talk to him, Zelig. Let me talk to him, and then I’ll tell you everything that I know . . . that is, if you’re ready to hear it.”

He didn’t turn his head, but his eyes darted to the side, meeting Ben’s gaze with a strange sort of expression—a foreign sense of foreboding—maybe it was fear?—the sort of emotion that Ben hadn’t realized that Zelig possessed. There was an underlying sense of vulnerability in his stare, and maybe he already knew the truth, even if he didn’t want to admit it. It brought to mind the same expression on another face in another time—the last time he’d seen Zelig’s father . . .

But Zelig nodded. “Y-Yeah,” he murmured.

Biting his bottom lip, Ben narrowed his gaze on the tai-youkai, wondering absently just how much Zelig really did remember but deciding in the end that it wasn’t the right time to broach that subject.

Without another word, he turned and headed down the hallway once more, taking his time in order to organize his thoughts before he confronted the bear-youkai. It had been centuries, and yet the memories were crystal clear in his mind. What surprised him was that Marin had managed to live his life without drawing notice thus far, and while Ben was curious as to how he’d accomplished it, the pervasive questions in his mind had little to do with the passing centuries since the first and only time he’d ever encountered the man.

And yet he couldn’t say that it surprised him, either. The oddly disjointed phone call that Zelig had made less than twenty minutes ago still ran through his head . . .

“ _B-Ben . . .?_ ”

“ _Ah, Zelig. Did your better half finally kick you out?_ ”

“ _Uh, oh, um . . . no_.”

 _Ben frowned. He’d been in the middle of explaining things to Gunnar and for a moment, he had wondered if he weren’t simply projecting his own unease over the situation onto Zelig. “Is something wrong?_ ”

“ _I don’t . . . I don’t know_ . . .”

“ _You’re not making much sense . . .” Ben hedged_.

“ _I know him, Ben. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but I . . . I_ know _him_ . . .”

 _That gave Ben pause, and he frowned at the phone. “Who do you know?_ ”

 _Zelig heaved a sigh—a long, impossibly weary thing. “Griffin Marin,” he answered quietly. “Isabelle’s bear_ . . .”

_Ben’s eyes flashed open wide, and he grimaced as the paltry bit of plastic that was his cell phone groaned under the strain of his tightening grip. “Zelig, where are you?” he demanded, disliking the tone of the tai-youkai’s voice._

“ _Home,” Zelig replied. “I . . . I brought him home_ . . .”

“ _I’ll be right there,” he said, clicking off the cell phone as he started to walk fast—very fast_. . .

Stopping outside the thick door of Zelig’s study, he scowled at the silence that seemed to deafen him. Taking a deep breath, he reached for the handle and opened the door . . .

Bas Zelig looked up from his place seated at his father’s desk, folding the newspaper in half and setting it aside before untangling his long legs and slowly getting to his feet. “Hey, Ben,” he greeted, stepping around the desk and offering his hand.

Ben shook it and nodded. “Would you excuse us, Bas?”

Bas nodded but shot Marin a quick glance before moving to comply with the request. Ben could sense his questions but didn’t offer any answers, and Bas didn’t say anything more as he headed for the door.

Marin didn’t turn his head, but he did watch Bas’ exit. Sitting rather hunched over with his chin ducked slightly in what Ben could only perceive as an effort to minimize the appearance of the angry scars that intersected the side of his face—a practiced sort of bearing that bothered Ben much more than he could credit. “He . . . he looks just like Cavendish,” he ventured at last, his tone lacking any hostility but not at all what Ben would consider friendly, either.

“Yes, he does,” Ben replied, stuffing his hands a little deeper into his pockets as he wandered toward the desk. “I’m Ben Philips. I’m one of Zelig’s generals.”

“I know who you are,” Marin remarked, his voice barely above a low rumble.

“I suppose you do.” Leaning against the front of the desk and crossing his arms over his chest, Ben frowned. “I also suppose you realize why you were asked to come in.”

He didn’t answer right away. The discomfort in his youki spiked and constricted though he made no outward sign that anything was amiss. When he finally did deign to answer, it was nothing more than a terse nod—a solitary jerk of his head, really. From Ben’s vantage point, he couldn’t rightfully see Marin’s face behind the curtain of shaggy brown bangs that hung just slightly below the youkai’s chin.

“You know, I thought you’d died a long time ago,” Ben went on, opting for a casual tone. “Why did you run away?”

“I didn’t . . . run away,” Marin contradicted. “I just . . . wanted to find a better place to die.”

That gave Ben pause as he considered the statement, and in the end, he figured that it sounded about right. He wouldn’t have wanted to die right there, either, he supposed. “And did you find that place?”

“As good a place as any,” Marin admitted.

“But you didn’t die.”

“N . . . No.”

Heaving a sigh, Ben pushed himself away from the desk and strode over to the small wet bar on the far side of the study. The little refrigerator under the counter was always stocked with bottles of water, and though he’d have preferred something a bit stronger, he allowed that water would just have to do. “Are you thirsty, Dr. Marin?” he called back over his shoulder.

“No, tha—thank you.”

Retrieving a single water bottle, Ben ambled over to the desk once more, deliberately taking his time in cracking the seal around the plastic cap. “I was never exactly certain what happened that night, you know. I, um, I got there a bit late, and Zelig . . . well, he was too small to understand. Fact is, I know he doesn’t really remember it very well, if he remembers it at all. Never talked about it that I know of.”

“He was just a cub,” Marin mumbled with a shake of his head. “A lot happened . . .”

Ben nodded. “Why were you there?”

Marin sighed, shaking his head slowly. “I . . . I don’t really know,” he replied.

Ben digested that for a moment. From anyone else, it might have seemed like a flip attempt to avoid the truths that might well work against him. From Marin, though, Ben had a feeling that he meant exactly what he said. Even now, centuries later, Marin really wasn’t sure exactly what had brought him to Sebastian’s mansion that night, or maybe . . . maybe it was more of the idea that he wasn’t entirely certain how he’d come to be in that place at that time, at all.

“But you were with the dissidents,” Ben prodded though not unkindly.

Marin grunted then ducked his chin a little more. “It made no sense, hiding our natures,” he muttered. “At least, it didn’t at the time . . .”

“So you came with them to help convince Cavendish to revolt against Sesshoumaru’s edict?”

He scowled, nodded, then shook his head slowly. “I thought that was the right path,” he admitted. “We just went there to talk. A couple of the others saw you take Terfoure into custody, and . . .” Trailing off with another sigh, Marin opened and closed his hand as he struggled to explain what he probably didn’t understand any better than Ben did. “They said that we were just going to ask for his release; that’s all. I didn’t know that some of them had brought guns along—youkai with guns . . . kind of ironic, isn’t it?”

Ben nodded slowly, understanding Marin’s statement completely. Guns were the reason that the youkai had chosen to hide their true natures . . . “The very things that brought about Sesshoumaru’s edict were the same things that those brash youkai would use to make their point,” he mused.

Marin shot Ben a quick glance. “We just wanted to make Cavendish listen; that was all.”

“Then why hide after the fact? Why did you run?”

Scowling fiercely at the floor, Marin hunched forward a little more, pressing his fingertips together as his hands dangled between his parted knees as he considered the answer to Ben’s question. “I . . . I could have stopped it,” he muttered. “I _should_ have stopped it . . . Cavendish’s mate . . . she shouldn’t have died,” he said, his voice catching, rough and somehow intrinsically gentle at the same time. “But I was . . . a-afraid. It all . . . spun out of control so quickly that I . . . I didn’t know what to do.” He sighed and shook his head again, the guilt and recrimination in his aura a painful thing. “If I had just gone into that house . . .”

“If you had gone into that house, you would have died,” Ben interjected, pointing out what should have been obvious. “What would you have done? Would you have jumped in front of Daniella? Would you have taken that bullet instead? Would you have tried to explain things to Cavendish when he was beyond the ability to perceive reason? No, I’ll tell you what would have happened had you gone into that house. Cavendish would have cut you down regardless of what your intentions were. He almost cut me down, you know, and then . . .” Ben paused in favor of a long quaff of the water before continuing, measuring his words carefully and understanding that no matter what he saw that night, Marin’s perception of it was vastly different and instead of seeing what he was able to accomplish, all he could comprehend were his own shortcomings. “You saved Zelig, didn’t you?”

“Like I said,” Marin mumbled, “he was just a . . . cub.”

Ben set the water bottle on the desk before turning his attention on the bear-youkai once more. “And had you not been in the yard—if someone else had caught Zelig . . . Daniella wouldn’t have been the only one to die that day, and the line of the tai-youkai would have been broken.”

“Broken,” Marin murmured, as though the word was of vast import.

“The chaos that would have ensued . . . It would have been a frightening thing. Perhaps Sesshoumaru would have been able to appoint a new tai-youkai, but when I stop to consider the madness that would have come from that, it staggers my mind.” Pausing to let his words sink in, Ben slowly shook his head. “Youkai would have risen up to proclaim themselves the strongest. They would have cut each other down, one by one, to prove their right as the mightiest . . . The human war with England . . . the taxes and the sanctions and the political turmoil that stemmed from it . . . I know—I _know_ —that it would have been the end of us, had Zelig been lost that night.”

He shook his head stubbornly, refusing to acknowledge Ben’s words. “I-I-I could have stopped them. I was the oldest one there. They would have listened to me . . .”

“Do you really believe that?” Ben challenged quietly. “A mob will not listen to reason. They came to destroy, and that was what they did. It’s what they _wanted_. If they told you otherwise, they were lying.”

“That’s not true,” Marin said, his voice thick with emotion. “Most of them . . . they had families . . . mates . . . cubs of their own. They didn’t want to die that day. They didn’t want to destroy. They just wanted to be heard. _I_ . . . I just wanted to be heard.”

“Because you felt that the edict was wrong,” Ben concluded with a wan nod. “Mr. Marin—excuse me: _Doctor_ Marin . . . You don’t strike me as a foolish man. Why do you insist upon lingering in your regrets?”

Ben’s question gave Marin pause. The bear-youkai slumped back and heaved a little sigh, flexing his right hand in an idle sort of way. From his vantage point, Ben could see the puffiness of the scar tissue between his thumb and index finger—the lingering reminder of a child’s consuming fear and the moment in time that had bound the two inexorably and forever. “I don’t regret what I did,” he finally admitted, his gaze flicking to meet Ben’s but only for a moment before it skittered away once more. “But I regret that I didn’t do more. I was . . . I was afraid, and . . . and because of that, a cub lost his parents. Because I did nothing, the tai-youkai was killed without honor and without . . . _dignity_. It’s as simple as that.”

Ben narrowed his eyes, trying to discern exactly what Marin was thinking. Had he felt this way in all the centuries that had come to pass, and if he had, how had he ever managed to survive? Guilt was a terrible thing to live with, but . . . But he supposed that it was understandable, too. By rights, any attack made against the house of the tai-youkai should have resulted in death, no questions asked, and yet here he was. Ben had spent weeks laboring over the decision to end the hunt for Marin centuries ago. On the one hand, anyone who had been there that night should have been hunted down and killed, and yet he had been reluctant to continue the search for Marin back then, and why?

He almost smiled—almost. Ben had come to understand in the time after Daniella Cavendish’s death that Sebastian held one thing above all else: his son. The strength he’d shown in being able to deliver the boy to Sesshoumaru had proven that, hadn’t it, and that had been the real reason that Ben had deliberately let the bear-youkai be presumed dead, after all . . . Hunting Marin down at the time would have accomplished nothing, and maybe the real sense of justice was sitting before him: a youkai who hadn’t ever meant to hurt anyone just to be heard . . .

Taking a deep breath and offering a noncommittal shrug, Ben shook his head and cleared his throat, waiting until the youkai finally lifted his gaze to meet his before he finally spoke. “No, if you had tried to stop it—if you had been inside instead of remaining in the yard then there wouldn’t have been a single soul to save Zelig . . . Sebastian was beyond comprehending friend and foe, and while I would like to think that he would have stopped himself in time, the truth of it is that he might not have. He might have cut Zelig down, himself, if Zelig had made it to that house, and he would only have regretted it later, and I tell you this: there has not been a day that’s gone by when I haven’t been thankful that you were there in the yard to stop Zelig and to send him back into the forest.”

“I’m not a . . . a hero,” Marin mumbled.

“No, you’re right. You’re just a man, and men make mistakes, but you saved the life of the tai-youkai, and that speaks volumes about your worth.”

Marin didn’t respond to that. Ben would have been surprised if he had. He didn’t look as though he quite believed Ben, but in the end, that was fine, too. He’d wondered years and years ago, just why he’d felt so compelled to speak to the bear-youkai. Now he knew. He’d always wanted to thank him, hadn’t he; to thank him for protecting Zelig at a moment when no one else had been there to do it.

“It’s getting late,” Ben said at length, tossing the empty water bottle into the trashcan beside the desk. “I need to speak with Zelig again, but I’d be honored if you would allow me to give you a ride home.”

Marin couldn’t hide the momentary look of surprise that registered on his face before he was able to blank it out once more. He looked like he wanted to argue or at the very least decline the offer, but in the end, he nodded just once. “Th-Thank you,” he mumbled instead.

Ben nodded and strode out of the office, pausing only long enough to locate Bas in the living room to ask that he sit with Marin for a few more minutes. Bas narrowed a speculative gaze on Ben, planting his hands on his hips and slowly shaking his head. “Why did Dad bring Dr. Marin here?” Bas asked without preamble.

Ben offered the future tai-youkai a wan smile and shrugged. “He saved your father’s life,” he admitted.

Bas’ eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh?”

“Mm. The day your grandmother was killed, he—Dr. Marin—caught your father before he could run back into the house and sent him back into the forest to hide. If he hadn’t done that . . . well . . .”

Bas nodded slowly. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Would you mind sitting with the doctor until I’ve spoken to your father? I’ll give him a ride home, but I need to take care of a couple of things first.”

“Not a problem,” Bas said. “Saved Dad’s life, huh . . .? Never would have thought that . . . I should thank him.”

Ben watched as Bas strode away, a hint of a smile quirking the corners of his lips. More and more often of late, the young man reminded him of the other Sebastian—Bas’ grandfather—and Ben knew that the Sebastian he had grown up with so long ago would have been so proud of Bas . . . just as he had always been of Zelig.

Giving himself a mental shake, Ben wandered over to retrieve the black attaché case he’d left beside the table before he headed back down the hallway to the solar. Zelig wasn’t there, but he didn’t have to think twice about exactly where Zelig might be. Whenever he was troubled by something, Zelig had a habit of sitting on the beach and staring out over the ocean, and now was no different.

Slipping out the door and across the yard to the narrow stone steps that led down to the beach, Ben heaved a sigh. The winds were picking up, rolling in off the choppy water. It somehow fit the mood, he supposed. “Gin will skin you if she catches you smoking those damn things,” Ben pointed out reasonably enough as he closed the distance between them.

Zelig started and blinked at the cigarette burning between his fingers. “Uh, probably,” he agreed absently.

“I talked to Marin,” Ben said without preamble. There really wasn’t a reason to beat around the bush, anyway. “You’re right. You do know him—at least, you _should_ know him.”

Rubbing his temple, he scowled at the gravelly sand, dropping the smoldering cigarette butt without bothering to snuff it out. “I keep seeing . . . fire . . . I hear screaming . . . and this . . . thunder, but I don’t . . . I don’t remember rain . . .”

Hunkering down beside Cain, Ben set the attaché case aside and rested his elbows on his bent knees. “He was there the night . . . the night your mama was killed. He saved your life . . . Sent you back into the forest to hide.”

Cain shot him a quick glance; a horrified sort of expression as the color leeched from his skin. “The night . . . Mother . . .?”

Ben sighed. “You never seemed to want to talk about it. Your father . . . He said that he wasn’t sure if you even remembered, so I didn’t press it. I believed that you would ask if you ever wanted to know.”

“F . . . Father . . .”

Ben grimaced against the unadulterated pain that seethed in Zelig’s aura. As though the passage of time had been somehow stripped away, leaving him as that four year old who couldn’t understand why his mama wasn’t going to get on the ship with the first rays of light . . . Ben had thought at the time that maybe it was better that Zelig hadn’t regained consciousness. Now he wondered just how difficult it had to have been for Sebastian to explain to his son that his mother was dead . . . “I have something. I kept it for you. I always thought that the time would come when you would want it. I guess . . . I guess maybe . . .”

Zelig watched out of the corner of his eye as Ben dug into the attaché case, carefully extricating an ornately carved cedar box—an incense box, actually—that contained the carefully laminated scroll. For years, Ben had protected it inside his private safe but when that method started to fail and as the parchment had started to crumble around the edges, he’d laminated it in order to preserve it for this day; for this moment. Tied with a teal ribbon shades darker than Zelig’s ceremonial color, it had waited, and now . . . Now it was time, wasn’t it?

“What . . . is . . . this . . .?” Zelig asked cautiously, his voice betraying his absolute dread. He refused to reach for it.

Ben cleared his throat and set the box in the sand beside Zelig. “It’s, um . . . It’s the last letter that your father ever wrote me. I received it from Sesshoumaru’s messenger who had been sent to tell me that Sebastian—Keijizen—had . . . had died.”

Zelig grimaced and closed his eyes, ducking his chin as raw pain surged in his youki. The dormant memories were a harsh thing as they sprung to life in his mind. Those half-forgotten wisps of memory were taking their toll on him, but as much as Ben wished it were otherwise, there wasn’t really a thing he could do. The young man who had returned from Japan flashed through his mind—the timid smile that still retained the far-away quality of the dreamer . . . Ben had watched as Zelig had come into his own, and while he was far from perfect, he was and continued to be a damn good man, and it was true that on some level, Ben was as proud of the man he’d become as he would have been had Zelig been one of his own, and still there was a certain distance that Zelig had always maintained, guarding the parts of himself that might have reached out for a father figure with a jealousy that Ben had never been able to touch.

And yet he knew that he was also as close as any man could ever hope to be, and it was more than enough to know that Zelig did consider him a friend. In the centuries when Ben had considered stepping away, had thought about leaving the stress of his station, it was Zelig, himself, that had always changed his mind though Ben would have been loath to admit as much to him . . .

“I . . . I remember . . .” Zelig finally said, lifting his gaze to the open water once more, watching without really seeing as the faint moonlight played on the waves. “I tore his hand open, didn’t I?”

His voice was little more than a monotone, as though he couldn’t find it within himself to lend emotion to his words, or maybe it was simply that the emotion that he had was reserved for the memories of a mother and a father half-forgotten.

“You did. He bears a scar from that and scars from your father, too. I think . . . I think they remind him of that night. I don’t think he ever wants to forget how easily things can spin out of control . . .”

Zelig thought it over then heaved a weary sigh. “Could you take him home, Ben? I . . . I should talk to him, but . . . but . . . maybe . . . maybe later . . .” Blinking suddenly, he turned to look at Ben at last, his eyes uncommonly bright even in the darkness of the falling night. “I guess he’s been seeing Isabelle . . .”

Ben blinked in surprise then shook his head. As unlikely as the couple might seem, he had to wonder if she weren’t possibly the best person to tackle the job of drawing the stodgy bear-youkai out of his shell. Giving himself a mental shake, he stood up and clapped a hand on Zelig’s shoulder. “It’s fine. I don’t think he’s going anywhere. In any case, I’ll see that he gets home. Don’t stay out here too long or you’ll worry your mate.”

“Thanks,” Zelig said.

Ben left Zelig there alone on the beach, trudging back toward the house. He hated to leave Zelig this way, but he’d done what he had set out to do, and in the end, he knew damn well that there really was only one person who could help him now, and she was in the bright, airy kitchen finishing dinner for her family . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _For those who haven’t read the oneshot, it is vastly helpful in understanding the circumstances discussed in this chapter_ :  
> [ ** _Purity: Revolution_**](http://www.mediaminer.org/fanfic/view_st.php/121391/)
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final Thought from Ben_** :  
>  _God, I need a drink_ …


	46. Wretched

Griffin closed the door and leaned against it with a long sigh. If he were completely honest with himself, he’d have to admit that he really hadn’t thought that he’d ever see his house again. When he’d opened the door only to come face to face with Cain Zelig, he’d nearly panicked, and he still wasn’t sure exactly what had happened. Everything had passed by so quickly that he just couldn’t process any of it; not really.

There hadn’t been any real or rational thoughts when he’d come face to face with the tai-youkai, either; no great epiphany or moment of clarity when he’d thought with any real sense of conviction that this was _the_ moment; the one he’d dreaded for so very long, and yet it had seemed rather anti-climactic. Preoccupied, he supposed, by the absolute confusion in Zelig’s expression, Griffin didn’t feel anything aside from a curious sense of inevitability, and even that had been somehow blunted. His emotions had been dulled, maybe, or maybe he’d just been too slow to consider the ramifications. He’d figured that once he was found, they would waste no time in killing him. After all, he had been involved with the group responsible for murdering Daniella Cavendish, even if that hadn’t really been his intent; even if he hadn’t known how it would all turn out in the end. He was there, wasn’t he, and he was there with the intention of making Sebastian Cavendish listen to their demands. What had happened on that God-awful night constituted no less than treason, and by rights, he ought to be dead for his part in it.

He felt like a complete an utter hypocrite when it came right down to it. Ben Philips said that he’d saved Zelig’s life, but he knew better, didn’t he? Had he not been so certain that they were right—idiots who bought into the idea that youkai were bigger, faster, stronger, smarter—and while that might have been true enough, when had that ever given anyone the right to persecute another because they were just a little weaker, a little slower? It had been easy to forget that youkai were prone to violence, more convenient to believe that youkai would not harm their own kind, and what kind of stupidity was that, after all? As bloody as human history was in the dusty tomes and the untouched annals of time, the history of the youkai was worse, wasn’t it?

He’d forgotten that back then, if he’d ever really realized it at all. So given to anger and hatred, he’d have just as soon watched humans die than extend a hand to help them, and when he’d first heard of Sesshoumaru’s edict, he had been shocked, stupefied—and yes, disgusted.

But he’d spent so long wandering alone, drifting from here to there without a second thought as to where he was ultimately heading. A bare step above apathy, in those days, he had survived on the bitterness of memories and the ugly manifestation of abhorrence that was never very far away.

Pushing himself away from the door with a weary sigh and a shake of his head, he couldn’t quite credit the idea that he really was home once more. Surrounded by the things that were familiar, he drew a deep breath and pushed his shoes off, steadying himself against the wall in order to brace his stance.

Strange how everything looked exactly as he’d left it. Zelig had allowed him the time to put out the fires since he wouldn’t be home to tend them, and he’d double checked all the windows and doors to make sure that they were secured.

Shuffling through the house and making his way toward the kitchen for a glass of water, he tried to brush aside the pervading sense of emptiness that resounded in the quiet. It was something that he’d grown accustomed to, or so he’d thought. Somehow Isabelle’s absence made it that much worse, didn’t it? What would she think when she heard the story? He felt like such a liar, telling half-truths that made him out to be some sort of dime store comic book hero when he wasn’t.

And if the grand inquisition wasn’t enough, the ride back to Bangor had been so much worse. Somewhere along the way, Isabelle had apparently told her grandfather that she’d been dating him because Ben had casually mentioned that Isabelle was a ‘nice girl’ from a ‘good family’ no matter what Zelig might say about her father. Griffin had been positive that his cheeks were flaming red, but Ben either didn’t notice or didn’t want to comment on it. Still, it was enough to have Griffin stumbling out of the late model luxury sedan before Ben came to a complete stop outside his house.

He sighed, filling a glass with water before lumbering into the living room and flopping down in his recliner. As hard as he tried to stop thinking about that night so long ago, he couldn’t help it, either. He’d been one of the last ones to arrive outside the Cavendish mansion. By the time he’d walked into the yard, some of the group were surrounding Daniella on the porch, and while they’d seemed uneasy, they weren’t out of control, and Griffin had figured that was fine, too.

He was hard pressed to pin down the moment when everything had gone awry. One minute, they were holding an uneasy court with the tai-youkai’s mate, and the next . . .

The fire that engulfed the barn and yard had spread with unnatural swiftness, and the chaos that broke out amid the screech of the livestock still trapped inside the burning building had lent an unnatural sense of horror to the scene that he was powerless to stop, and it had left Griffin with an altogether familiar feeling that he was completely helpless.

He’d heard someone yell out that they needed to find the ‘boy’—Cavendish’s son. At that time he might well have been the only way to ensure that they might be able to escape unscathed. Stupid, that reason, Griffin had thought at the time. Cavendish wouldn’t give a quarter, would he, not when he’d been ambushed in the most miserable of ways . . .

A piercing scream permeated the chaos as one of the men who had arrived late with Griffin was cut down in his tracks. As quickly as the sound had come, it was silenced as an arc of blood jettisoned into the air, black against the backdrop of rampant surging flames. The youkai’s body exploded in a wash of light and dust and wind. Griffin shielded his face with a forearm to escape the brunt of the fierce wind. He lowered his arm in time to see Sebastian Cavendish dash out of the tree line as though the very hounds of hell were on his heels. He spared no quarter as he closed in on the mansion; a solitary goal set in his steely gaze: his mate was in that house, and he knew it—and God help any man who stood in his way.

He cut down youkai after youkai—some who stepped forward to stop him; others who were unlucky enough to be in the path between Cavendish and the mansion. One by one they fell as the rage of the tai-youkai reverberated through the forest, and Griffin had been more frightened than he could remember being, ever. The wrath of the tai-youkai was furious and terrible to behold . . .

Griffin stumbled forward, his vision wavering, affected by the intensity of the flames. Even now he wasn’t certain what he thought he could accomplish. Staring around in something akin to horror, he hadn’t understood how everything had spun so entirely out of control. A tremendous crash jerked him around in time to see the roof of the stable cave in, and as he turned away from the destruction, he narrowed his eyes when he saw movement on the edge of the forest . . .

He didn’t think about it; couldn’t remember making a conscious decision to grab the child. No, looking back, all he could remember thinking was that the cub would be dead if he kept moving toward the house. He didn’t recall moving, but somehow he’d closed the distance, snatching Zelig off the ground, wrapping his arms around the boy’s waist as he whipped around, hunching his shoulders forward in an effort to shield Zelig from garnering any notice from the sparse youkai still rampaging outside the mansion. The terrified cub just kept screaming and growling, calling for his father, for his mother . . .

Letting his gaze fall to his right hand, Griffin stretched out his fingers with a grimace at the stiffness that had set in. He’d been pushing himself to complete the translation for Isabelle, spending the bulk of his day on the task since he’d only had to be at the preschool for a couple of hours in the morning. The thickened, puffy scar between his index finger and thumb throbbed terribly. In his struggle to break free, Zelig had taken a chunk out of his hand. The cub had been a fighter, and Griffin had to wonder whether his father had realized that before he’d followed his mate into the afterworld.

It felt a bit anticlimactic, he had to admit. He’d spent centuries believing that if he ever came face to face with the tai-youkai, he’d be killed without question for his involvement on that night. Never once had he ever bothered to think that the outcome would be anything less, and he couldn’t help the flicker of trepidation as he glanced toward the window. Zelig had a handful of hunters at his disposal at any given time. It’d be nothing for one of them to hunt him down now that they knew where he lived. If they showed up in a day or a month, he supposed that wouldn’t be entirely surprising, either . . .

Heaving a sigh, he set the glass on the small table beside the chair, smashing the pads of his fingers against his eyes in an attempt to staunch the throbbing pain that was steadily growing more intense.

Why was it?

Heaving a sigh that shifted into a yawn, he let his hands fall onto the arms of the chair without opening his eyes. Grogginess was fast invading his senses, and he could feel the gentle waves of sleepiness wash over him. Why was it that he felt oddly reassured; more at peace than he had in a very long while?

He didn’t have the strength to dwell on it, and maybe that was all right, too . . .

He was asleep within minutes, comforted by the safety of familiar surroundings.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Gin slipped into the studio and closed the door without a sound. Spotting Cain standing across the room staring out the window, she frowned at the confusion coloring his youki.

“ _Gin_ . . .”

 _Glancing up from the heavy iron roasting pan she was pulling out of the oven, Gin shot the general a bright grin. “Oh, Ben! Did you decide to stay for dinner?_ ”

“ _Ah, I’ll have to take a rain check,” he said with a rather lopsided half-smile_.

“ _Okay,” she allowed with a disappointed sigh. “Do you know where Cain is? Normally he’s in here trying to sneak a bite by now_ . . .”

“ _Zelig’s down by the water,” Ben replied. “He’s got a lot on his mind at the moment_.”

“ _Hmm.” Dropping the oven mitts she’d used to grab the roasting pan, she cocked her head to the side and pinned Ben with a thoughtful expression. “Does it have something to do with the man in the study?_ ”

 _He smiled at her quiet question but seemed a little surprised that she’d figured out that much. “Yes,” Ben agreed slowly, stuffing his hands into his pockets with a careless shrug. “I think . . . I think he needs to be alone for a little while, but I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you. He’s had a bit of a shock_.”

“ _Maybe you should stay,” she said reasonably. “You’re his best friend, after all_.”

 _Ben shook his head and smiled rather wryly. “No,” he intoned, rubbing his forehead in a tired sort of way. “I think—no, I know . . . You’ll be able to help him much better than I could ever hope to_.”

 _She didn’t look like she believed him entirely, but she nodded instead, barely noticing when Ben stepped over to her to offer her a chaste hug. He slipped out of the kitchen as quietly as he had come, and Gin had finished getting dinner in silent contemplation_.

It hadn’t been entirely surprising, either, when Cain hadn’t come to dinner. She was putting away the leftovers when she’d seen Cain shuffle onto the porch—she’d barely eaten anything, herself, and Sebastian had left just after Ben, citing that he had reservations for a special Valentine’s dinner at one of the nicer establishments in the area.

Waiting until nearly midnight, she’d tried to be patient; to let Cain come to her. When she started to realize that he wasn’t going to, she took her time checking all the doors and windows to make sure they were locked before turning out the lights and heading upstairs.

He wasn’t in their bedroom, though—not entirely surprising. That left the studio . . .

Padding across the cool floor, Gin rubbed her arms through the thick fleece robe she’d grabbed after changing into a nightgown. He didn’t turn to acknowledge her, but when she slipped her arms around his waist, he patted her hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. “Mama always said that if you keep things bottled up, you’ll go mad,” she murmured, closing her eyes and resting her cheek against Cain’s broad back.

He sighed—more of an expulsion of breath than a show of exasperation. “Your mother’s a smart woman.”

“Of course she is,” Gin agreed lightly. “Ben said that you’d had a pretty rough day.”

“Did he?”

“Mhmm . . . want to talk to me about it?”

Turning enough to slip his arms around her waist, Cain tried to smile. It was half-hearted at best and completely unconvincing, but he tried, and for that, Gin leaned up and kissed his cheek. “How is it that you’re always able to make me feel better?” he mused, more to himself than to her.

“That’s what a mate does, isn’t it?”

He uttered a wry chuckle. “Yeah, but you’ve always been a hell of a lot better at it than I’ve ever been.”

“That’s not true,” she chided gently. “You just don’t realize when you say or do things that make me feel special, but you do all the time.”

Rubbing her arms, he grimaced and slowly shook his head. “Come on, baby girl. You’ve got to be cold.”

“Well, maybe a little,” she allowed then shot him an impish grin. “I’m all right, though, I swear.”

Sparing a moment to lean away, making a show of eyeing her bare feet, Cain clucked his tongue and swept her up into his arms before striding toward the staircase that led to the loft above the studio. “You’d be warmer if you’d remember to wear socks,” he pointed out.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and let her temple fall against his shoulder. “But I never wear socks to bed,” she pointed out.

“I know,” he rejoined. “That’s why you get cold so easily.”

“Hmm,” she murmured when he set her on the end of the bed. Stuffing his hands deep in his pockets, he didn’t move to join her. Gin sighed. “You’re not going to tell me what happened, are you?”

Something about the way he dragged his hand over his face made her feel just that much worse. He looked mentally exhausted, didn’t he? The strong man that she knew so well . . . maybe there were things that even a man like Cain Zelig just couldn’t deal with alone . . . “Isabelle tell you about her boyfriend?”

Gin blinked in surprise at the strange course of the conversation but shook her head. “Uh, no . . . she’s seeing someone?”

“Apparently,” Cain allowed. “Bear-youkai. He teaches at the university. Ancient linguistics.”

“Okay,” Gin remarked, unsure where Cain was going with it, but allowing him to say whatever was on his mind.

Patting his pockets, he dug a rumpled pack of cigarettes out and shook it. Biting her lip to keep from chastising him for what she considered his one and only nasty habit, she opted to remain silent on the matter just this once. Whatever was bothering him was bad, she could tell. He wasn’t a thoughtless person; quite the opposite, in fact. That he was digging out a cigarette spoke volumes, in her opinion. “She said . . . well, it wasn’t so much what she said, but the way she said it, and . . .” Trailing off, Cain shook his head, pausing in his tale long enough to light the cigarette. “Anyway, that’s where I went earlier.”

“Mm,” she intoned. “So you wanted to talk to him; to make sure that he knew not to ignore his youkai voice.”

“Sort of,” he allowed, letting out a steady stream of smoke. “Thing was, when I saw him, I . . . I knew him. I just . . . I couldn’t place him.”

“He’s the one you brought back here.”

He nodded slowly, taking another deep drag off the cigarette. Gin winced inwardly. His hands were shaking horribly. “Yeah.”

She sat up a little straighter. She wanted to go to him; to wrap her arms around him. Something in his aura stopped her. As though he needed to get the words out, his youki drew in tight around him, shrouding him, even from her. “Did you figure out how you knew him?” she asked gently, as though she were afraid that he’d break if she spoke louder.

Slowly, reluctantly, he lifted his eyes to meet hers with a sadness—no, more like a sense of complete bewilderment—written in the depths of his gaze. “Y . . . yeah. Well, Ben . . . reminded me . . .”

“Cain, if you’re not ready to talk about this . . .”

Stubbornly he shook his head. “No, I’m fine . . . it’s . . . fine . . .”

“If you’re sure,” she told him.

Raking his fingers through his bangs, he let out a deep breath and nodded. “He, uh . . . he saved my . . . my life . . .”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It was . . . the night my . . . my mother was killed . . .”

She flinched at the rawness of his voice; at the confusion in his eyes as he struggled to make sense of something that he’d never, ever understood. Suddenly he laughed—a hollow, sad sort of sound. Licking his lips, clearing his throat, he tried to put his thoughts into words, and all she could do was listen. “I can remember bits and pieces. I don’t know if the things I think I remember are in the right order or not . . .” He shook his head, his lips curling back in a sneer that should have been an attempt at a smile. “Hell, I don’t even know if what I think I remember is a memory or just something that seems like one.”

“You were young then, right? Just a pup, really,” she ventured, wrapping her arms around her shins and offering him a timid, if not completely compassionate, smile.

“I was about . . . four, I guess . . . I remember . . . fire. Everything was burning. Everywhere I looked . . . everywhere I tried to run, but these . . . these arms grabbed me; held me back, and I . . . I fought him. I just . . .” Swallowing hard, he pinched the bridge of his nose, dumping potpourri out of a small crystal dish onto the dresser and snuffing the cigarette butt out in it. “I just wanted to find my parents, I suppose . . .”

“Of course you did.”

“He told me to run back into the forest; to hide, I guess . . .”

“Isabelle’s bear . . .”

Cain nodded slowly, a weak little smile surfacing on his lips—and this one closer resembled the man that she knew so very well. “Yeah.”

She raised her arm, extended her hand, and he stepped toward the bed at last though the sadness in the shadows of his eyes hadn’t receded. Sinking down beside her, he drew her into his arms and sighed. “I’d like to meet him,” she said softly, snuggling as close as she could, willing him to understand that he didn’t have to bear the burden of his memories alone.

He kissed her forehead and heaved a sigh as she tangled her fingers into the length of his ponytail. “I’m sure you will,” he replied almost absently. “Hell . . . I forgot to give you your Valentine’s present.”

“That’s all right,” she assured him.

“I . . . I love you, baby girl,” he whispered.

“I love you, too, Zelig-sensei.”

“I think . . . I think they would have liked you.”

“Oh? I think I would have liked them, too.”

“Yeah?” he asked, kissing her forehead again.

Gin smiled. “Yeah.”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle pulled the belt of her robe tighter and stepped over Froofie as she hurried toward the door. With a marked frown, she checked her watch as she reached for the knob. It was nearly midnight.

“Ben,” she said, eyes widening in surprise as she pulled the door open and stepped back. “Is everything all right?”

A friendly if not somewhat reserved smile surfaced on his face. “Yes, everything’s fine,” he assured her quickly. “I apologize for dropping in on you so late, but I wanted to talk to you. May I come in?”

“Oh, sure,” she said, moving aside to let him pass. He stepped over the threshold, stopping long enough to scratch Froofie behind the ears. “So what brings you by?”

An enigmatic little expression flitted over his features; one that she couldn’t quite discern before he managed to hide it behind a polite little smile. He waited until she closed the door before he spoke. “I was called in earlier to talk with someone . . . someone I gather you know fairly well.”

Strange sense of foreboding prickled her spine, and Isabelle tugged on the belt of her robe once more before stepping past the youkai general. “Oh?”

“So I’ve heard,” he replied amicably. “Your grandfather tells me that you’re . . . spending time with Griffin Marin.”

“Griffin?” she echoed, whipping around to face Ben. His expression was inscrutable. Unconsciously gripping the lapels of her robe in a tightly clenched fist, Isabelle shook her head. “What about him?” she asked, struggling for a nonchalance that she just didn’t feel and failing miserably.

He must have interpreted her tone correctly, because his hands shot up as though he was trying to placate her. “It’s nothing bad, I assure you,” he hurried to say. “Has he mentioned to you that he has met Zelig before?”

Shaking her head, she sank down on the sofa, her knees buckling beneath her. “N-no,” she murmured as she reached for the cake that Cain had sent home with her earlier. “Why?”

Ben chuckled softly, gesturing at a chair. “May I?”

“Oh, of course.”

He sat and scratched his forehead idly, as though he were trying to figure out where to start. “I didn’t think that he would,” he admitted. “I guess I can’t blame him. He’s probably believed that he would be held accountable if he was ever found out.”

“Ben?” she questioned, shaking her head, wishing that she understood the youkai’s strange commentary.

“Ah, I apologize.   I’m not making much sense, am I?”

“Held accountable for what?” she demanded, all pretense of nonchalance falling by the wayside as she cut off a bite of cake and stuck it into her mouth.

“Zelig gave you . . . cake?” he asked in mild surprise.

She nodded and swallowed. “I was a little out of sorts when I drove out there earlier,” she admitted. “Are you trying to change the subject?”

“Ah, no,” Ben assured her with a smile. “That just surprised me, was all. Your grandfather doesn’t part easily with his cake.”

“No, he doesn’t,” she agreed then wrinkled her nose. “Guess that means I must have seemed pretty pathetic, huh?”

“I doubt it,” he replied. “That aside . . . To put it quite simply, Griffin Marin saved your grandfather’s life a long time ago.”

Coughing as she choked on a few cake crumbs that she’d managed to inhale, Isabelle set the plate aside and reached for the glass of wine as Ben shot to his feet and strode over to her, gently thumping her on the back. “I’m . . . all right,” she wheezed, her voice echoing in the glass as she tried to swallow some of the liquid.

Ben nodded though he was slow to move away. “Are you sure?”

She nodded emphatically, draining the wine glass and setting it aside with a heavy thump as she cleared her throat and wiped her tearing eyes. “Yes,” she assured him. “You just . . . surprised me.”

He sat on the sofa beside her and stared at her for a long minute. “He’s a good man,” Ben said slowly, quietly.

“But,” she prompted when he trailed off.

“But,” Ben allowed with a shake of his head. Holding his hands out in a reaching sort of gesture, he seemed to be struggling to find a good way to say whatever he had on his mind. He sighed and shook his head, drawing a raised eyebrow-ed look from Isabelle. In all the years that she’d known Ben, she couldn’t remember hearing him sigh very often. It didn’t bode well, did it? “He didn’t seem to want to reconcile himself to the idea that he wasn’t responsible for your great-grandmother’s death, either.”

She frowned, unable to grasp exactly what Ben was talking about. “What do you mean?” she asked cautiously.

Ben narrowed his eyes, regarding her in a steady sort of way that made her feel like a little girl caught trying to sneak into the cookie jar. “You didn’t know . . .” He trailed off and shook his head. “Of course you didn’t know. The night Zelig’s mother was killed, your bear saved his life. He caught your grandfather and forced him to run back into the forest to hide. If he hadn’t—” Cutting himself off abruptly, he offered Isabelle an apologetic sort of grin and shrugged as if to discount what he had been about to say. “Maybe you can help him,” he finally said with a conspiratorial wink.

“You’re assuming that he wants my help,” she said in a tiny voice.

“He doesn’t?”

She grimaced. It was one thing to admit it to herself; it was something entirely different to admit it out loud. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think he does, and others . . .” Heaving a sigh, she shook her head. “I just don’t know.”

“I have faith in you,” Ben said, his resolve lending his eyes a brilliant glow. “Can I give you a bit of advice?”

“Sure,” Isabelle said. “Can’t hurt, can it?”

Ben chuckled and leaned over to squeeze her hand. “Don’t give up. The older we are, the more stubborn we can be.”

“Is that what you call it?” she asked, breaking into a wan smile despite her bleak thoughts.

“Certainly. What else is there?”

Isabelle snorted and let out a deep breath that lifted her bangs off her forehead. “Oh, let’s see . . . irrational . . . ridiculous . . . asinine . . .”

Ben chuckled again as he got to his feet. “If anyone can get through to him, I think you can.”

“You have a lot of faith in me, Ben,” she murmured.

He shrugged offhandedly. “I saw your grandmother work miracles with Zelig, and I see a lot of her in you.”

“Thank you,” she replied quietly.

Ben nodded and headed toward the door. She stared at it long after he’d let himself out.

Griffin had saved Cain’s life? She frowned. If that were the case, why hadn’t Griffin told her, himself? Of course, if what Ben had said was true, then she supposed she could understand his reticence. After all, if he had been involved in the uprising, then it was entirely possible that he feared repercussions. Still . . . he’d saved Cain’s life. If Ben said it, then it had to be true. Griffin could have told her. He _should_ have told her . . .

‘ _Told you what?_ ’ her youkai spoke up. ‘ _That he was there the night your great-grandmother was murdered?_ ’

Wincing at the callousness of her youkai’s voice, Isabelle shook her head. ‘ _No, it wasn’t like that, exactly . . . Ben said that Griffin saved Grandpa’s life_ . . .’

‘ _You know, even if it seems that way to you, maybe it doesn’t to Griffin. If he blames himself for anything . . . well, you remember the stories of your grandfather? Your mother told you, didn’t she? Up until he married Gin, he was set to die to be with his first wife, true mate or not. What it all comes down to isn’t what you see or believe; it’s what_ he _does._ ’

‘ _What . . . he believes . . .? What Griffin believes_ . . .’

Unfortunately, that was the million dollar question, wasn’t it? Exactly what _did_ Griffin honestly believe . . .?

 

 

 

 

 


	47. Breaking Point

Cain scowled at the sketchbook in his hand, gripping the sepia pencil so tightly that it snapped in half. “Damn it,” he growled, slowly shaking his head. “Damn it, damn it, _damn it, damn it!_ ”

Heaving a frustrated sigh, he tossed the bits of pencil in the general direction of the trash can beside the work table and yanked the drawer open to grab another one.

Why couldn’t he get this right?

“Hey, Dad, have you heard from the Australian tai-youkai yet?” Bas asked without preamble as he strode into the studio.

“No, Bas, I haven’t,” he bit out tersely, flipping the page on the sketch pad as he glowered at the blank white expanse.

Bas frowned. “Maybe you should give him a call. Jilli’s supposed to be back tomorrow, and she’ll want to know if you found out anything—”

Whipping around to pin his son with a scowl, Cain dropped the pencil on the table with a clatter. “Damn it, Bas! You’re going to be the tai-youkai sooner or later. Can’t you figure out how to dial a fucking phone?”

Blinking in surprise at the unusual outburst from his father, Bas shifted his gaze from side to side as though he were looking for something. “Sorry,” he said slowly, cautiously. “When I told you about it, you said you would take care of it.”

Cain snorted indelicately, tossing the sketch pad onto the table and draping his hands on his hips as he pinned his son with a formidable scowl. “Yeah, well, it’s about time you realized that I’m not going to be around forever. Things happen every day—things you don’t expect, and what’ll you do when you’re the one that everyone comes crying to whenever they need their ass scratched?”

Narrowing his eyes on Cain, Bas shook his head. “I didn’t realize I was crying, nor did I realize that I’d ever asked you to . . . scratch my ass,” he bit out.

“Can’t you do _anything_ for yourself?” Cain snarled.

Leaning back, crossing his arms over his chest, Bas nodded once, jaw ticking as he struggled to keep his composure in the face of his father’s irrational anger. “Sure, I can.”

“Then why don’t you do it instead of barging in here and asking me damn stupid questions?”

Eyes glowing with indignant irritation, Bas returned his father’s glower. “I don’t know. I didn’t realize I was asking _stupid_ questions. I didn’t realize that you didn’t give a great goddamn about your daughter.”

“Since when has it ever been all right for you to lecture me?” Cain demanded.

Bas turned his head, stared at the floor before slowly lifting his gaze once more. “I apologize,” he said in anything but an apologetic tone.   Staring at Cain for another long moment, he finally pivoted on his heel and headed for the door. Stopping on the threshold, he turned back once more. “Tell me something, Dad.”

“What?” Cain growled, jerking the drawer open again and shoving things around in a vain attempt to find . . . something. He didn’t even know what he was looking for . . .

Bas hesitated before answering, and when he finally did, his tone was clipped, terse. “Does this have something to do with Griffin Marin?”

Cain’s chin snapped up as he slammed the drawer closed so hard that the table shook. “It’s none of your business,” he snapped.

Bas stared at him and slowly nodded. “Yeah, sure. You know, maybe you should get this out of your system before you bite someone else’s head off, like Mom’s.”

That said, he stomped out of the studio, slamming the door in his wake.

Cain heaved a sigh and ran his hands over his face, shoving his bangs back as he squeezed his eyes closed. ‘ _Damn it_ . . .’

He’d thought he was all right this morning, hadn’t he? When Gin had opened her eyes, he was still awake, unable to sleep but feeling somehow calmer. Maybe it had just been her proximity that had soothed him, comforted him, lent him the false sense of security in believing that everything was still alright, just as it had been the day before and the day before that . . .

Rubbing his forehead, he picked up the sketch book again, hooking the pencil with his index finger as he slumped back on the stool with a defeated sort of air. If he could just get this right, maybe . . .

The scratch of the pencil on the paper was the only sound in the stillness. The lines seemed to flow from his mind to his hand to create the image: a gentle flare here, the arc of a curve there . . . The image he could see in his mind as clear as the notion in a dream, and yet . . .

Yet he faltered and stopped, unable to piece together the lingering traces of a memory; unable to fix the details in his mind; unable to capture his thoughts on the paper.

‘ _Damn it!_ ’

Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he grimaced but refused to stop. He was almost there, wasn’t he? Almost there . . .

But the lines wouldn’t connect; the image he sought simply would not come.

“Damn it!” he snarled, whipping the tablet across the room. It smacked into the wall beside the door, and Gin yelped, hopping aside just in time to avoid the flying paper. “Sorry,” he grumbled, cheeks reddening as he avoided her curious gaze. “I . . . I didn’t see you there . . .”

Kneeling down to retrieve the sketch book, she smoothed the bent pages and stood up, slowly making her way across the floor to stand beside him. “I’m all right,” she said quietly. “I thought maybe you could use some company.”

He didn’t answer right away. Tossing the pencil onto the table, he stood up so quickly that the stool slid back. Gin caught it and steadied it while Cain stalked across the floor to the windows then over to the sofa situated not far from the worktable, feeling like a caged animal staring at the world outside of the cage—a world that he just couldn’t reach. “I don’t think I’m exactly what you’d consider good company,” he said stiffly.

“You’re always the best company to me. Were you sketching?” she asked instead.

His chuckle was harsh, and he waved a hand in the direction of the sketch pad she held. “If you want to call it that.”

She nodded slowly, understanding his unspoken assertion that she should look at his failed attempts. Opening the book, she took her time leafing through the pages, gnawing on her lip when she finally lifted her gaze to meet his. “These are really good,” she ventured, her smile trembling though the warmth in her eyes was genuine.

He snorted indelicately and shook his head. “No, they’re not,” he stated flatly. “They’re shit—utter shit.”

“Cain . . .”

“You know what they say about me?” he asked suddenly, dropping onto the sofa and burying his face in his hands.

He felt her draw closer but didn’t hear her; could feel the slight give as she sat down beside him. “What do they say?” she prompted.

Letting his hands fall away, he slumped back against the sofa, regarding his mate through veiled eyes, uttering an incredulous laugh that was full of self-disdain. “They say I can draw anything—anything at all. They say I can bring universes to life with the stroke of a brush . . . with clay and marble and stone . . . but I can’t . . . I can’t even sketch _her_.”

“Her?” Gin echoed with a shake of her head but must have realized who Cain was talking about, because she grimaced and bit her lip before quietly adding, “your . . . your mother.”

He grimaced and reached out, pulling Gin close against his chest, drawing the comfort from her that she so freely afforded him. “It’s so . . . damn stupid,” he murmured, pressing his lips against her forehead as she smashed her face against his chest. “I can remember the . . . most idiotic things. I can remember this family of beavers . . . this one gnarled old tree that sort of . . . clung to the bank of the river like it was going to topple over and fall in, but it never did . . . Hell, I can remember chasing the cat up the tree—I got in trouble for that . . . but I can’t . . . I can’t remember her face . . . my own mother’s face . . .”

She winced when he barked out a choked grunt of laughter; an incredulous sound that lacked any real humor. “But you were so young,” she reminded him.

“Yeah? Tell me, Gin. How would you feel if you couldn’t remember your mother’s face? For that matter, how would you feel if something happened to you, and your children couldn’t even remember your face?”

“What do you remember?” she countered. “You have to remember something . . .”

Heaving a sigh, Cain closed his eyes. It was the same thing he’d thought about all night, and while he knew the answer to the question, he hated the thought of putting it into words. How could anyone understand what he couldn’t explain; that his memories of his mother were based more in emotions and in sensation that in concrete pictures in his head? “I . . . I remember she always wore these . . . _beautiful_ dresses. My father . . . he used to say that Mama was the only decoration that the house ever needed. They’d seem ridiculous by today’s standards, I suppose. Long, flowing skirts with these full petticoats underneath, and . . . like . . . waterfalls of lace that tumbled from her sleeves, and . . . and the softest hands . . . always catching me when I tripped or . . . or ruffling my hair . . .” Trailing off, he drew a deep breath. He felt completely inept as he tried to put his thoughts into words, and Gin leaned away, stared into his face, her golden eyes bright with a shimmering sheen of unshed tears. “I remember she laughed a lot. All the time . . . even when she was trying to scold me . . . I remember the sound of her shoes on the hardwood floor—soft little clicks while her petticoats rustled . . . I remember these . . . pointless things, and I . . . I _cannot_ remember her face.”

She reached up, gently pushed his bangs off his face, her fingertips lingering on his cheek. “I’d like that,” she said at last, her voice barely more than a whisper as a tremulous smile touched her lips.

“Like what?” he asked, shaking his head in confusion.

Her smile widened just a little, and she managed a weak laugh. “You asked me how I’d feel if my children couldn’t remember my face, but if they could remember my laughter, and if they could remember how happy I was just to be their mom for any length of time . . . That’d be more than enough for me.”

Cain grimaced. “Baby girl . . .”

He pulled her close again, held her tight as the thickness of tears choked him, stung his eyes but stubbornly refused to fall. She sniffled and snuggled as close as she could as he marveled at the woman who never ceased to amaze him. “She loved you,” Gin said, her voice muffled by his body. “It was there in all your memories of her.”

“She did,” he agreed quietly. “She did.”

She held onto him for another minute then sat up, wiping her eyes with trembling fingers. Offering him a watery smile, she leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Do you want a piece of cake or something?”

He shook his head, catching an errant tear with the pad of his thumb. “No,” he said then sighed. “I should go find Bas and apologize.”

“Why?”

He couldn’t manage to meet her gaze. “I yelled at him for . . . for no good reason.”

“I’m sure he’s all right,” she assured him. “Anyway, I—what’s this?” she asked, cutting herself off as she leaned over to snag the narrow wooden box off the table.

Cain grimaced and shook his head, gently pulling it from her grasp and turning it over in his hands. “It’s . . . from my father,” he admitted at length. “Ben . . . gave it to me.”

“He made that?” she said, a hint of awe in her voice. “It must’ve taken a long time. The carving is beautiful.”

“N-No, not the box,” Cain reiterated. “It’s what’s inside the box . . .”

“Which is?”

He cleared his throat, still turning the box over and over again in a decidedly nervous sort of way. “It’s a . . . a letter.”

“From your father?”

He nodded. “Y . . . Yeah . . .”

He could feel her gaze on him, as though she were trying to decide whether or not to ask the question that was forming in her head. He knew what it was, but he just couldn’t say it. “Have you read it?” she asked, her tone completely neutral.

Why did he feel completely stupid for hesitating? It was just a letter, wasn’t it? A letter didn’t have the ability to hurt him . . . “No,” he admitted in a whisper.

She shrugged simply and cast him a warm smile of encouragement, slipping her arm through his and giving his bicep a gentle squeeze. “You will when you’re ready to, right? There’s no rush, I’m sure.”

Gripping the box in both hands, he drew a deep breath and started to push against the sliding top. It was sheer force of will that kept his thumbs moving. Wincing as he pulled the cover out of the groove that held it in place, he dropped it on the table, frowning at the laminated parchment that was scrolled up and tied with a bit of teal ribbon. He could still see the traces of the sealing wax that had once held it closed. Some of the oil from the wax had seeped into the parchment. It was almost translucent . . .

His hands were trembling when he reached into the box to lift the scroll. His fingers stilled, hovering over the letter, and he jerked his hand back with a sharply indrawn breath.

“You don’t have to read it now if you don’t want to,” Gin said.

Cain sighed and shook his head. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he allowed. “I just . . .” Trailing off, he hesitantly lifted his gaze to meet hers. She looked sad—infinitely sad, and maybe she felt as helpless as he did. “Will you read it?” he blurted suddenly, unsure where the thought had come from, but positive that it was the right choice.

Her eyes flared wide and she sat back, the tip of her tongue darting out to moisten her lips as she quickly shook her head. “Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yeah. Please.”

She considered it for a moment then nodded. “Do you . . . Do you want me to read it to you?”

He started to nod then thought better of it and shook his head. He wasn’t sure why he felt the overwhelming sense of foreboding, but he did. As though something in that letter had the ability to hurt him, he couldn’t help but feel that if he read that letter . . .

She looked like she wanted to tell him something; to talk him into reading the letter or to talk him into allowing her to read the letter to him. Gritting his teeth together as he forced himself to take the scroll out of the box, he handed it to her without a word.

Taking an inordinate amount of time, she untied the ribbon and dropped it onto the table, casting him a nervous sort of glance as she slowly unrolled the preserved parchment. A bit of paper fell out of it, and Cain grabbed it between his index and middle fingers. “Oh, my God,” he murmured, staring at the scrap through narrowed eyes. He felt like his heart stopped for a moment only to slam back into action with a painful thump. Shaking his head, he tried to understand exactly what it meant. A fragment of memory surged through his head, and if he concentrated long enough, maybe it would make sense . . .

“What’s that?” Gin asked, jarring him out of his reverie with her softly uttered question.

Shifting his eyes to meet hers, he couldn’t seem to find the words to explain. She leaned in close to peer at the paper, and what she saw made her giggle: the family of otter sketched out in faded black lines. It . . . it had been his writing assignment, hadn’t it? The one his mother had set down for him . . . one of the countless lessons that he’d done his best to ignore . . .

Blinking quickly at the hotness that poked the back of his painfully dry eyes, Cain half-laughed, half-groaned. “I was supposed to be practicing my letters,” he said in a voice that Gin had to strain to hear.

“ _Do you remember how to write the letter ‘O’?_ ”

“‘ _O’ is for otter, Mama_ . . .”

His mother’s laughter still echoed in his ears . . .

He hadn’t practiced that letter. Thinking instead of the family of otters, he’d drawn them on the expensive paper that his father had bought for him to learn how to write his letters on . . .

Grimacing at the vividness of that singular memory, Cain shook his head and handed the scrap to Gin. “You’re . . . sure?” she asked gingerly, holding the scroll open and peering over the top.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Y . . . Yeah.”

She was more than a little reluctant to do as he requested. Staring at him for several long moments, she looked like she wanted to say something, but in the end she must have reconsidered.

There wasn’t a sound for what felt like an eternity. Gin didn’t say anything as she read through the letter. Shifting his gaze out the window, he couldn’t bring himself to look at her face, to ascertain her reactions from the expressions that filtered over her features. As much as he wanted to know what his father had written so long ago, he couldn’t help the absolute reluctance that loomed over him, either.

Gin uttered a soft whine—more like a whimper, really, covering her mouth with her hand as she let the letter scroll closed over her fingers. Tears were pooling in her eyes—he could smell them—and when he finally dared to look at her, he couldn’t stand to see the absolute pain delineated in every single thing about her. Quiet sobs shook her shoulders as she leaned against him, and he couldn’t tell if she was trying to comfort him or trying to draw comfort from him. “H-hey,” he said quietly, catching her by the upper arms and pushing her away so that he could see her face. “Gin . . .”

She sniffled miserably, her ears flattened and jutting out to the sides. “Cain, don’t . . . I d-don’t think you w-want to know . . .” she choked out as tears ran down her cheeks.

Narrowing his gaze on her, he reached for the letter, pulling her close against his side. She wiped her eyes again but didn’t try to protest as he unrolled the scroll and drew a deep breath before he started to read . . .

 

 

‘ _30\. July 1751_.’

‘ _Benjiro_ ,

‘ _We have almost reached our destination. While I have not seen the sky or the ocean for myself in days, I feel it coming closer: the land of our rising sun. I wished to thank you, my friend. Your years of devotion weigh heavily on my heart these last days, for I never got the chance to thank you. There were so many times I should have said as much. Forgive my oversight, I beg you_.

‘ _As the interim tai-youkai in this time and in that place, I know that you will endure where I have failed, and I know that you shall prepare the way for Zelig. I have tried these last months, to instill the beliefs that he needs. More often of late, I feel like a hypocrite, telling him to look to himself for strength—to trust in his own heart and in his own intuition for the guidance that I, myself, seem to have lost. I’ve told him to keep his word when he makes it. I’ve advised him never to give his word lightly. I’ve taught him that fairness and compassion should stand firm against those things that would be simpler to achieve in less upstanding of ways. I have implored him not to trust too freely, but to give trust freely when it is earned. Yet I fear that in all my lessons, the one lesson I cannot impart him is the one that he truly needs to know: there is beauty in the misting skies of dawn, beauty in a child’s smile. There is beauty to be found in the eyes of those who look to you for strength, and there is beauty in the quiet rise of the moon. I shall entrust you with this lesson, Benjiro, for I am now blinded to the vitality of color, and I cannot remember the swelling of hope that used to fill me when I observed the rising dawn. Precious little emotion is afforded me of late, and the emotion I do possess is devoted entirely to Zelig_.

‘ _You must help to guide him, Ben. I trust in your oath that you will never leave him. Those words—your vow—they ring in my mind, offering me a semblance of strength to see my last task through. You promised that you would aide him in whatever capacity he requires, and I trust you. Aye, I trust you_.’

‘ _Zelig still sees the world through the eyes of a child, yet I fear that his vision is tainted. Though his nightmares come less frequently now, he does not comprehend that which he has seen. If he has ever cried, I know it not. To have never mourned the loss of his mother . . . for my sake. I sought to tell him that it was not a sign of weakness. I wanted him to know that Daniella loved him; that I love him still. Looking into his serious eyes, I find that I cannot do it. He does not remember much of that night. He seems to have forgotten, and perchance that is for the best. What good could come of that, I ask you? Dwelling on things lost along the way . . . It is the path of the fool_.

‘ _If this is to be my final confession, then let it be known: I failed Daniella. I failed Zelig. I failed you, and I failed myself: the one vow I made that I could not keep: the oath I swore to protect her. In my miscalculation, I cost Zelig not only his mother but his unborn sibling, as well. They could have comforted one another, and Zelig wouldn’t have been left alone in the end. I damn myself for that. I’ve damned myself for many things. There is only one thing that keeps me going. I must not fail Zelig in this. He will live, and he will overcome, and I swear on all that is holy that he will not repeat my mistakes. It is my singular resolve to see this through. I leave it to you; in your capable hands. You will not falter where I have failed, and Zelig will live to see a new day. To look upon the rising sun with a smile . . . to see his own children thrive and flourish . . . that is my unspoken vow: to ensure that he carries on_.

‘ _The daylight faded long ago. I sit in the darkness, afraid to sleep, afraid to dream. There is no comfort in anything; not for me. In rejoining Akinako, I shall be abandoning Zelig, and the irony of it all stands out in my mind. Perhaps this is the real punishment for having failed her. Perhaps this is the damnation that I truly deserve. I grow infinitely weary, and like a coward, I look to my son to lend me strength. When I open my eyes to face the new day, it is with the knowledge that my moments are limited. Still I selfishly drink in every detail I can: memories of Zelig in this time that I have stolen. Daniella might want to know, after all. I owe her that much. I owe her so much more_.

‘ _The cabin boy who brings our meals has told me that we shall be at our destination within the week. It seems so short, and yet it seems like ages, too. Thank you, my friend. I owe you so much. You have walked beside me so many times through the years. The only thing I can leave you is my most precious achievement. Guide him as his father would have had he not been such a foolish man. Walk beside him as you have walked beside me. Advise him when he asks your opinion; lead him when he falters. Of all the things that have brought me shame, Zelig, alone, has not_.

‘ _I close this now with one last plea. Do not let Zelig lose the qualities that make him shine. The way he sees the world is remarkable, and perhaps a dreamer can endure where the more pragmatic man has failed_.

‘ _Keijizen_.’

 

 

Clearing his throat raggedly as he let the letter roll closed once more, Cain pressed his thumb and index fingers over his burning eyelids. ‘ _God_ ,’ he thought as he struggled to comprehend all that he’d read. ‘ _God, God_ . . . God . . .’

His mother was . . .? Choking back the surge of sound that rose in his throat, he couldn’t help the little groan that escaped. Even to his own ears, it was a pathetic sort of sound.

Gin was sobbing in earnest now, her face buried against his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she kept mumbling. “I’m so sorry . . .”

“She was . . . pregnant . . .” he murmured, his voice raw, roughened by emotion. “I never knew . . .”

Gin choked out another sob then leaned back, dragging her hands over her cheeks to wipe away her tears, drawing a tremulous breath—stunted and harsh. “But you know, he really l-loved you; your father,” she said, her words punctuated by hiccups.

Cain nodded, his vision wavering as a sheen of moisture slipped over his eyes. “I always thought . . . He never seemed . . . I always thought that he believed that drawing was a waste of my time . . .”

She managed a watery little smile, temerarious at best but heartfelt nonetheless. “All those things about you that I love . . . He loved them, too.”

Cain grimaced.

 _‘Of all the things that have brought me shame, Zelig, alone, has not_.’

Swallowing hard, he shook his head, his memories jumbled and yet there was a semblance of order to the chaos; order that had just begun to take shape . . . “I didn’t want to cry,” he said, lifting his gaze to the ceiling, pressing his lips together in a thin line. “Once when I fell out of a tree, Papa said . . . four was too old to cry, so I . . . I didn’t. I just pretended that . . . that I was all right, but . . .” Ducking his chin, he closed his eyes as the dulled memory grew brighter in his mind. “When he took me to Sesshoumaru, and I realized that he was . . . was leaving . . . that I’d never see him again . . . I begged him . . . not to go. I made him feel worse instead of better . . . my _father_ . . .”

“You were scared,” she said gently, sniffling quietly, wiping her cheeks.

“. . . I was scared,” he agreed quietly. “As if I thought that he had a choice. As if I had the right . . .”

“You were still a child,” Gin reprimanded, her voice sharper than normal, almost stern. “Just a child, and you were in a new place, being left with strange people. Cain . . .”

He shook his head quickly, barked out a terse laugh. “Kagura came into my room that night. She said . . . she said that I’d be fine, that my mother and father had done well with me . . . but I could see it in her face, in her eyes. She . . . she was trying to tell me that it would be all right, you know? If I wanted to cry, and I just remember thinking . . .” He winced and squinted, leaning forward, tapping his fingertips together between his knees. “I didn’t want to remember. It . . . it hurt, and . . . and I guess that little by little . . . day after day . . . I managed to . . . forget . . .”

“No, you didn’t . . . You loved them, and they loved you. That’s all you needed to remember.”

He let out his breath in a long gust of air and flopped back, pulling Gin against his chest once more, idly smoothing her hair away from her face. “Do you think . . . Do you think they knew it? That I . . . love them?” he asked.

“Don’t you know it?” she countered.

“Know it?”

She nodded, slipping her arms around him, hugging him tight. “With Bellaniece and Sebastian and Evan and Jillian . . . don’t you know that they love you, even if they don’t say it?”

He considered that, his lips quirking just a little as the faces of his children flashed through his mind—images of infants with their eyes barely open; of toddlers taking first steps; of first days of school with brand new clothes and fear in their expressions that they tried so desperately to hide . . . He _did_ know, didn’t he? He knew without question that his children loved him. “Yeah,” he murmured, pressing his lips against Gin’s forehead. “I guess I do . . .”

“Then don’t you think that your mother and father knew it, too?”

“I . . .” he sighed, drawing Gin just a little closer. “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “I . . . I suppose they did . . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Keijizen’s letter taken from **Purity: Revolution**_.
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final Thought from Gin_** :  
>  _Oh, Cain_ …


	48. Turmoil

“Get your sword up, Izzy. You’re leaving yourself wide open.”

Isabelle snorted indelicately and whipped around in a tight circle, bringing the bokken around in a wide arc. Gunnar twisted his wrist, neatly parrying her blow with an absolute arrogance and ease that grated on Isabelle’s already frazzled nerves. “Shut up and fight me for real, Mamoruzen,” she gritted out.

“I would if you were a more worthy opponent,” he scoffed, flicking his wrist to block her again.

“You’re such a jerk,” she ground out, twisting her arms to deal a strike against Gunnar’s torso that he blocked, as well.

“Are you certain that Uncle Yasha trained you?”

“And Ryomaru,” she growled.

“Your form is sloppy.”

“Stop criticizing me and _fight!_ ”

Rolling his eyes, he stepped out of the way as Isabelle lunged at him with the bokken hefted over her head. “Fighting women is entirely beneath This Mamoruzen,” he remarked dryly.

Isabelle shook her hair out of her eyes and pinned him with a formidable glower. “You’ve had this coming for a long, long time, you know,” she pointed out. “Now bring it—unless you’re afraid to _really_ fight me.”

Heaving a sigh, Gunnar shook his head but brought his sword up to ready stance, both hands gripping the hilt of his cherished weapon, aptly named Keppanshuto—the Blade of the Blood Seal. It did not contain his youkai, as Tetsusaiga had done for InuYasha years and years ago, but it was forged from the fangs of Toga, Sesshoumaru, and InuYasha and was said to be one of the most formidable youkai weapons in existence. “By all means, then, Izzy, consider it . . . _brought_.”

Uttering a low growl, she charged at him again, cleaving a neat arc in the air with her forward motion. He blocked her easily enough and even had the audacity to grin at her—that lazy, condescending grin that never failed to inspire complete and utter irritation on her part. Damn him, anyway . . . Just why was it that every one of the men in her life was conspiring against her?

“Face it, wench, you will never be able to defeat me,” he scoffed.

“The only reason I challenged you,” she bit out as she swung again, “was because I knew that Bastian wouldn’t even try.”

“Bastian wouldn’t have given you the time of day,” he shot back. “You’re no match for me, and you’re sure as hell not a match for Bastian the Barbarian.”

She almost smiled at the reminder of the nickname that the cousins had bestowed upon Bastian years ago. For all his quiet demeanor, he was the undisputed fighter out of the lot of them. Gunnar was no slouch, of course. Neither was her cousin, Morio, but Bastian had thrived on the training that the rest of the boys had believed to be more sport than necessity. Isabelle had learned because, in their tight knit family, she’d been considered one of his own to Ryomaru, and she’d been intrigued one day when sitting on a fence watching as Ryomaru gave Morio instruction.

Of course, back then, it had been a little easier. She’d been able to best Morio and even Gunnar fairly easily. She tended to be nimbler than the boys had been, but her true strength wasn’t offensive as much as it was defensive. As she’d grown, her father, uncle, and grandfather—the men who had trained her—had stressed defense, and while she might be able to mount a decent attack, the rationale, she supposed, was that any fighting she’d have to do would more than likely be only to protect herself if no one else was there to do it for her.

Still, she wasn’t sure why she’d gotten the bright idea that it was time to practice her somewhat rusty skills. Having spent yet another fitful night unable to sleep as she wondered alternated between wondering whether or not Griffin missed her as badly as she missed him and mumbling dire invectives by turns, she’d gotten up when her alarm went off, sparing just enough time to don comfortable clothing and grab the bokken that she’d brought with her from Japan. Then she’d driven straight over to Gunnar’s house, barged inside, pointed her sword at him, and stated quite flatly that he was going to fight her. Gunnar, who had been in the middle of reading the newspaper with a cup of fragrant tea near the window at the small nook in his kitchen, had quirked an eyebrow at her and blinked once or twice as he tried to discern whether or not she was being serious. That gesture had irritated her enough to jab him in the center of his chest with the blunt end of the bokken before striding out of the room to fetch the sword that hung over the wide expanse of the obsidian fireplace mantle in the living room.

The truth was that she sorely, desperately needed to vent her abject frustration. Two weeks had passed since Ben had stopped by to tell Isabelle what he knew, and though she’d tried in the time since to see Griffin, he’d refused to so much as open the door for her, obstinate man that he was.

What she couldn’t comprehend was why he insisted on being so stubborn. Surely he couldn’t think that what he’d done back then had been wrong, at least not now. Still, it seemed they were at a complete and utter impasse, and that was almost more than Isabelle could tolerate.

And she missed him, damn it. Didn’t he know that? He missed her, too—she knew he did. Getting him to admit it, however, was proving to be more difficult than she could credit.

Even Froofie missed him. The poor animal spent all his time sitting by the door, staring at it as though he believed that if he did it long enough, Griffin would walk in and demand that they come back home. Isabelle snorted. Of course, she’d have to make him grovel, at least for a minute or two; make him admit that he missed her as desperately as she missed him . . .

Heaving a sigh, she rolled her eyes at her own capricious thoughts. The odds of Griffin coming anywhere near groveling . . . ‘ _Well, okay, so that wouldn’t_ really _happen_ . . .’

And the worst of it was that her sweet puppy also refused to answer to ‘Froofie’ anymore. No, somewhere along the way, he’d adopted Griffin, hadn’t he, and the only time she could get any real response out of him was when she broke down and called him ‘Charlie’ . . .

Grunting with the force of her exertion, Isabelle lunged at Gunnar once more, growling in abject frustration as he blocked the tip of the bokken with shocking ease. She knew damn well that she wasn’t that bad; not really, and in any other circumstance, she might well admire his absolute abilities but at the moment, she sorely needed the outlet if he’d only comply with her wishes.

“Fight me!” she growled, tossing the bokken aside. Gunnar sighed and shook his head but jabbed the tip of Keppanshuto into the ground and stepped back, shaking his arms before assuming a ready stance. Black hakama blowing in the winter wind, she supposed that she ought to be somewhat pacified enough that at least he’d bothered to change into practice garb. She extended her arm with a snap, the heel of her hand extended, aiming for Gunnar’s chest. “Ha!”

He blocked that with his wrist. “Form’s not bad,” he appraised as he continued to block her strikes. “You’re a bit rusty, aren’t you?”

In the back of her mind, she could hear her grandfather’s voice—InuYasha’s voice—chiding her. “ _You can’t get distracted, damn it! Pay attention to what the hell you’re doing! Got that? No granddaughter of mine would let the boys kick her ass, do you hear?_ ”

Twisting to the side, she extended her arm, aiming a blow at his chest. Gunnar, ass that he was, chuckled, pushing her hand to spin her away from him.

“Hey, Gunnar, you got that file on that snake-youkai we’ve been tracking?” Bas’ voice cut in. “Oh, hi, Bitty.”

“Bastian,” she mumbled curtly, pausing for a second to nod at her cousin before renewing her efforts to beat on Gunnar.

Gunnar glanced over at him in time to see him step out of the house before turning his attention back to Isabelle once more but didn’t miss a beat in blocking her attempts to strike him. “Yeah, hold on,” he replied almost absently. “Let me humor Izzy a bit longer first.”

‘Humor _me, will he?_ ’ she fumed, wrinkling her nose in abject irritation. She uttered a low growl and struck again with renewed fervor.

“Is that what you’re doing?” Bas asked, curling his index finger over his lips in a vain attempt to hide the grin that surfaced on his face.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Gunnar countered dryly.

The trill of a cell phone cut off any comment Bas had been about to make. “That yours?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Gunnar grunted, making no move to answer the call. “Yes. It’s on the table there. Who is it?”

Bas stepped over and picked up the device, pulling it open and frowning at the digital display.   “It’s Myrna,” he called back, tapping the phone against the heel of his hand to close it again.

“Damn it,” Gunnar muttered. “Toss it here, will you?”

Bas did, and Gunnar caught it without looking and without missing a block, either.

Isabelle rolled her eyes and gritted her teeth as Gunnar flicked his wrist to open the phone and hit the connect button singlehandedly. “What do you need?”

She wasn’t sure whether it was more insulting that he didn’t seem to mind fighting her as he was talking on the phone or that he so obviously thought so little of her skills that he was willing to do so, in the first place. Either way, his arrogance was wearing thin on her already frazzled nerves, and she reacted before she stopped to think about it. Dropping into a squat, she performed a perfect leg sweep, neatly catching Gunnar’s shins and bringing the future Japanese tai-youkai down flat on his ass.

Hopping to her feet and brushing her hands together as a completely self-satisfied sort of smile surfaced on her features, Isabelle spared a moment to appreciate the total irritation on Gunnar’s countenance before turning on her heel to properly greet Bas.

Bas, however, was laughing far too hard to respond as Isabelle rose on tiptoe to brush a chaste kiss over his cheek. ‘Howling’ would be a good description, she supposed. ‘Guffawing’ was another one.

“That was an entirely cheap shot,” Gunnar grumbled as he got to his feet, pinning Isabelle with a formidable scowl that she promptly ignored.

“There are no cheap shots,” she retorted, slipping an arm around Bastian’s waist and shooting Gunnar an insincere, if not entirely saucy, grin. “That’s what Grandpa always says.”

He snorted indelicately, cheeks ruddy from his absolute irritation over having being brought low by a woman, no doubt. “Have you gotten all of your aggressions out of your system?” he demanded, snapping the cell phone closed as he jerked Keppanshuto out of the ground and stomped over to them.

“Almost,” she said coolly, her gaze flicking over her arrogant cousin as a hint of amusement ignited. “Are you ready to apologize?”

That earned her a rather stoic expression. “And why would I do a stupid thing like that?” he asked in a somewhat bored tone.

“For doubting Griffin’s integrity, of course,” she reminded him.

“Oh, that . . .” Trailing off, he tilted his head back and pondered for a moment before leveling a no-nonsense look at her. “Can’t say that I’m sorry at all.”

Restraining the desire to grind her heel into Gunnar’s foot, Isabelle rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh, crossing her arms over her chest as a mulish scowl surfaced. “You owe him an apology, too,” she pointed out in what she hoped was a reasonable tone.

“No, I don’t,” he maintained stubbornly. “The day I apologize for worrying about your well-being is the day I keel over dead, Izzy.”

“You’re such an ass,” she pointed out. “Back me up here, Bastian.”

Bas shifted uncomfortably and sighed. “Well, he _is_ an ass,” he agreed slowly, “but you can’t really blame him if he was worried about you.”

“ _Bastian!_ ” she protested, mouth falling open in shock as she rounded on him. “He was _entirely_ wrong, damn it! How can you possibly take his side?”

Bas shook his head and offered her a half-hearted little grin. “I realize that he has a tendency to do things in a completely misguided sort of way, but—”

“Misguided, my ass,” Gunnar snorted.

“—but you can’t fault an idiot for being an idiot, can you?” Bas finished without pausing for Gunnar’s surly interruption.

“Oh, I think I can,” she said, narrowing her eyes on Bas. He grinned at her for real, the jerk . . .

“As heartwarming as this is,” Gunnar cut in before Bas could form a rebuttal as he strode past them toward the house, “I’m kicking you both out now. I have work to do, if you don’t mind, and I’ve had more than enough interruptions for the day.”

“I still need that file,” Bas called in his wake.

Gunnar didn’t stop moving. “I’ll bring it in with me,” he said over his shoulder.

“Come on, Bitty,” Bas said as he tossed an arm around Isabelle and wheeled her around. “Let’s go get a cup of coffee.”

“You’re buying,” she said. “I can’t _believe_ you, of all people, sided with Mamoruzen.”

Bas sighed and shrugged as he propelled her toward the house. “He cares about you, even if he is too anal to admit it out loud. You’re like the little sister he never had.”

Isabelle wrinkled her nose. “I’m older than he is!” she pointed out.

“Same idea.”

“That’s just stupid.”

“He’s always been like that, remember? Maybe one of his sisters dropped him on his head . . .”

She couldn’t help the little smile that twitched on her lips. “Maybe.”

He chuckled. “Speaking of dropping him . . . Nice leg sweep. I was very impressed.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s not often that you see the Gunnar Inutaisho knocked onto his . . . laurels . . .”

She giggled at Bas’ choice of words. “Impressed enough to fight me?”

He chuckled. “Absolutely not.”

She heaved a pointed sigh designed to let him know exactly what she thought of his refusal. The endearingly irritating man just laughed.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Gavin Jamison scowled out the window at the sight of his mate playing in the snow with her mother. The scene, he supposed, was endearing enough, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.

To be perfectly honest, he’d felt that way for a while. In the nearly two weeks since he’d convinced Jillian to come back to the States, they hadn’t been able to reach Dr. Avis at all, and while Cain had assured him that Avis was still in Australia, something just didn’t make sense.

“If he’s still there, why didn’t he answer his door or his phone?” Gavin asked at length. He didn’t really expect a concrete answer.

Cain shuffled over to stand beside him at the window with one hand shoved deep in his pocket while the other held a steaming cup of coffee. “I don’t know, Gavin. Maybe he decided to take a vacation or something. Maybe he moved.”

Heaving a sigh and running a hand through his hair in complete exasperation, Gavin snorted indelicately. “You and I both know that neither of those reasons makes any sense at all. Can’t you do something? Send in a hunter, or . . .? Hell, my dad would be willing to go if it’s for Jilli.”

Taking a swig of coffee, Cain deliberately took his time answering. “It’s not an issue of whether or not I have an available hunter. The thing is, when I allowed him to be exiled, I turned him over to the jurisdiction of the Australian tai-youkai, and Jude Covington isn’t exactly known for his cooperation. Unless Avis does something to warrant it, there’s no way anyone can just barge into his house demanding answers. At this point, he’s done nothing wrong— _nothing_ —and as much as you and I might not like it, there really isn’t a damn thing that we can do, either.”

Heaving a haggared sigh, Gavin dragged his hand over his face in an entirely frustrated sort of way. “Cain, you don’t understand,” he finally said. “Jilli loves you and Gin. I mean, there’s not a question in anyone’s mind about that, but . . . she has questions. It’s natural, right? There are times . . .” Shaking his head, he struggled to find the words to explain himself. “Sometimes when she’s doing something, she gets this . . . look . . . on her face, like . . . like she’s trying to decide if she does certain things because it’s her, or if she does them because . . . because her biological parents did, and . . . and I want to have pups someday, but . . . Jilli doesn’t say it, but I know that she can’t do that while she still has all these questions in her head.”

Cain nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on the women in the yard. They were rolling a huge snowball—probably building a snow man, and while his lips were turned up with a little smile, the expression deep in his eyes was infinitely sad. “I can’t do anything, Gavin, and for the record, I understand better than you might think. I’ve tried to think of a reason to demand that they go in and check on Avis, but there _isn’t_ one. Those were the terms of the exile. I have no jurisdiction over him anymore unless he breaks the rules.”

Raking his hands through his hair, Gavin shook his head and uttered a low growl. “So what? I’m just supposed to march out there and tell her that Dr. Avis is trying to avoid her? Is that it? But I suppose that at least you don’t have to worry about Jillian’s desire to know about her biological parents anymore, huh?”

“Of course not,” Cain replied acerbically, shaking his head at the young man’s uncharacteristic show of temper. “Do you honestly think that I’m happy about this? Biological or not, Jillian is _my_ daughter— _mine_. She’s _been_ my daughter since the moment I found her, and if you think that this makes me happy on some level then you’re dead wrong.”

Gavin grimaced as Cain stalked away. He wasn’t entirely certain where he’d come up with the brass to challenge the man in such a way. He never had before.   The image of Jillian’s face shot through his head, though—the complete defeat in her expression as they’d turned to board the plane in Australia. He supposed that was where it had come from. The look on her face at that moment in time would forever remain etched into his mind, and he clenched his jaw as a ferocious need to protect her surged inside him.

True enough, he could appreciate Cain’s position in the matter. His hands were tied, so to speak, regardless of whether or not he wanted to do something to locate the missing doctor. In many ways, it probably was worse for Cain, after all. Being who he was had certain limitations at times, and this was one of those moments.

‘ _So if the tai-youkai can’t do a thing_ ,’ he thought as the first glimmers of an idea took root and grew in his mind, eyes darkening as his jaw tightened, as stubborn resolve drew him up a little straighter, “Maybe . . . maybe someone _else_ can . . .”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Griffin dropped the pen with a heavy sigh and hunched forward, pinching the bridge of his nose as he squeezed his eyes closed. The silence of the house was almost overwhelming. Even the occasional crackle of the fire burning bright on the hearth did little to cut through the thickness.

It was nearly two in the morning, and he was exhausted.

Leaning back, he flexed his fingers, grimacing at the stiffness that seemed so much worse than usual.

‘ _You’re pushing yourself too hard_ ,’ his youkai commented.

‘ _I’m fine_ ,’ he maintained, forcing himself to pick up the pen once more. ‘ _I’m almost finished with this_.’

‘ _Sure, you are. You’re also killing yourself in the process_.’

‘ _I’m not_.’

‘ _Fool. You think that finishing the translation will somehow make it so that you don’t think about her?_ ’

He didn’t respond to that. That wasn’t at all why he was trying to complete it, damn it.

‘ _Right . . . so you’re not thinking that if you finish the translation that you’ll have a reason to see her, huh?_ ’

He snorted, his scowl darkening as he shoved himself away from the desk and stood up, stomping toward the kitchen for a mug of tea. ‘ _That’s . . . that’s not true, at all,_ ’ he maintained with a stubborn shake of his head.

‘ _Isn’t it? I mean, if you finish the translation then you’ll have to see her, won’t you? Not entirely without merit, but you’re being dense if you think that I’m buying it. All you have to do is answer the door when she comes by—which, by the way, she didn’t do today. Maybe she’s finally gotten disgusted with you and has decided to give up_.’

‘ _Isabelle? Give up? Not a chance in hell,_ ’ he scoffed though his hand paused for a moment as he reached for the jar of honey.

‘ _It would serve you right if she did. You miss her, don’t you? So why not just admit it? If she doesn’t hate you for what happened between Cain Zelig and you_ —’

‘— _Then she will when she finds out about everything else_ ,’ he snapped, gnashing his teeth together as the honey jar slipped from his clumsy grip only to shatter on the floor.

‘ _But you don’t know that for sure, do you?_ ’

‘ _Yes, I do, damn it!_ ’ he snapped, swiping up a dishcloth and jamming it under the faucet. ‘ _Just forget it, all right? Forget it . . . She’s_ . . .’

His youkai sighed. ‘ _She’s better off without you, right?_ ’

Grimacing as he stooped down, his body protesting the movement, Griffin concentrated on cleaning up mess while ignoring the heavy sarcasm of his youkai voice’s words. ‘ _Of course she is_ . . .’

‘ _Yeah, and you’re missing the most important point_.’

‘ _Which is . . .?_ ’

‘ _Which is that it doesn’t matter if_ you _think she’s better off with or without you. It’s what_ she _thinks that ought to matter. Why don’t you stop trying to hide behind excuses and just tell her everything?   At least you’d know then, one way or the other, because this limbo-thing really, really stinks_.’

As much as he hated to admit it, his youkai had a point. The not knowing was enough to drive him mad, wasn’t it? Still, telling her everything . . . that was easier said than done. Some things were buried just a little too deep, weren’t they? Dredging it all up again . . .

He scowled and shifted his weight, sitting on the floor and letting his head fall back against the cupboard doors with a dull thump. He couldn’t do it, could he? That . . . that was the real reason behind his reluctance. He could feel the sheen of cold sweat breaking out all over his body, winced as his heart hammered heavily against his ribcage. In his head, he could hear the screams closing in on him from every direction. Though dulled by the passage of centuries, they hadn’t gone away.

It was too much, wasn’t it? Just thinking about it hurt far too much. There was no escaping it, and he knew deep down that she’d never understand. How could he expect her to when he still didn’t? He couldn’t change the past, could he, and even if it were possible, what good would it do him now?

She was too beautiful, too brilliant. She still believed that the world was inherently kind and that the true nature of man and youkai was fundamentally the same. Even if he tried to explain, it wouldn’t make a difference. Some things were simply too awful to be credited, and some truths weren’t nearly as pretty as the storybooks would have you believe.

Isabelle and he were entirely opposite, really. She had yet to see enough, and he had seen far more than he’d ever wanted to. Those two extremes were never meant to find a middle ground, and while he’d been foolish enough to let the idea entertain him for a while, he was too pragmatic not to realize that it simply wasn’t meant to be.

One day, if he was lucky, he might remember her and smile, but for now thoughts of her were far too painful. In his mind, she would forever be that woman-child with the stars in her eyes who stood just out of his grasp, and that was how it was meant to be, wasn’t it?

Closing his eyes, willing away the absolute desperation, the overwhelming sense of melancholy, he sighed.

That was how it was meant to be . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Bokken_** _: wooden katana-like practice sword_.  
>  ** _Keppanshuto_** _: the Blade of the Blood Seal: Gunnar’s weapon forged from the fangs of InuYasha, Sesshoumaru, and Toga_.
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _I sooooo kicked his ass!_


	49. Holding Out

“This has ‘disaster’ written all over it, doesn’t it?”

“What was your first clue?”

Sebastian Zelig glanced over at his cousin and slowly shook his head. Amber eyes narrowed speculatively, he was idly swirling the contents of the thick glass as he observed the dance floor. For all intents and purposes, Gunnar Inutaisho looked amused enough. That just figured, Bas supposed, since Gunnar had less of a vested interest in the entire affair than he did.

Shifting his gaze back to the dance floor once more, Bas stifled a sigh and tried not to scowl at the scene playing out before him—or to be more exact, he tried not to scowl at the number of men populating the rather seedy establishment who were enjoying the spectacle as Sydnie and Isabelle danced to the obnoxiously loud music. Of course he’d realized long, long ago that Sydnie could move in ways that could leave him on his knees and begging. What he was less-than-pleased about was that she seemed set on making sure that the rest of the bar knew it, too.

“Careful, Bas. You’ll make a scene,” Gunnar warned.

Bas snorted, his scowl darkening as he tried not to take the bait Gunnar dangled before him. “Wouldn’t think of it, Gunsie,” he said mildly. “Sydnie’ll scratch their eyes out if she notices them staring at her.”

Gunnar chuckled again. “True enough,” he allowed with a shake of his head. “I’m not sure if it’s worse that those bastards are staring or that neither one of them ever seems to notice stuff like that at all,” he remarked, nodding once at the women, currently engaged in one of the raunchiest female dances that Bas had borne witness to outside of a strip club.

That did little to assuage Bas’ growing irritation.   “I suppose,” he remarked rather tightly.

“Oh, relax, will you? She is going home with you, after all.”

Ignoring the dryness in his cousin’s tone, Bas grunted. “That might be true, but trust me, you’ll understand one day. The last thing you’ll want is for every fucking man in town to be staring at your mate.”

“Keh,” Gunnar snorted. “As if that’ll matter.”

Bas rolled his eyes. He knew damn well that Gunnar honestly believed the bullshit he often spouted. In that vein, Bas had to admit that he was looking forward to the day when the arrogant bastard was brought to his proverbial knees. “If you say so,” he retorted, reaching for his beer without bothering to look for the bottle, opting instead to keep his eyes on the women.

“If you don’t like men staring at her, why don’t you tell her to dress a little less provocatively?” Gunnar suggested, nodding at Sydnie, who was too busy gyrating every part of her lithe little body to notice the perusal of the gaggle of men.

Bas shot Gunnar an ‘are-you-stupid’ sort of look. “I like the way she dresses,” he pointed out.

“Mhmm, and so does the rest of the male population.”

He could only heave a sigh at that remark since the irrefutable truth was staring him in the face, as it were. Glancing from Sydnie to Isabelle, however, only served to deepen his already formidable frown. “She get Dr. Marin to talk to her yet?” he asked, nodding at Isabelle.

Gunnar rolled his eyes. “No, she hasn’t. Why else do you think we’re here?”

Bas shrugged and sat up a little straighter when a man with a death wish strolled over to the women. Sydnie stopped dancing long enough to listen to whatever he had to say before fluttering her hand in Bas’ general direction and promptly ignoring the poor bastard. The guy turned and looked around but must have realized exactly who Sydnie was gesturing at. He might have found it amusing if the man hadn’t been trying to hit on his wife because when he saw Bas, his eyes widened, and he quickly hurried away.

“For kami’s sake, will you stop scowling at people?” Gunnar grumbled, shaking his head and setting the glass aside.

“No, I don’t think I will,” he shot back.

“Pathetic,” Gunnar scoffed.

Bas opened his mouth to answer but snapped it closed again when the song mercifully ended. Isabelle linked her arm through Sydnie’s, dragging her off the dance floor.

“Just what do they think they’re staring at?” Sydnie huffed, narrowing her eyes as she glared in the direction of the bar as she slipped onto Bas’ lap despite the fact that there were a couple empty chairs at the table.

Isabelle flopped down beside Gunnar and reached for her drink.

Bas wrapped his arms around his mate and glanced over to see what she was talking about. He grimaced. A couple of women at the bar were looking over toward their table though it was Bas’ considered opinion that they could be and likely were watching Gunnar. “It’s fine, kitty,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the din as he idly rubbed her thigh with the pad of his thumb.

“Hmph!” she pouted, her jewel-like eyes taking on a glow that bordered on mayhem. “We’ll see about that,” she warned as she started to rise.

Bas tightened his arms around her to hold her where she was. “Absolutely not,” he told her. “Behave, will you?”

She uttered an entirely unladylike snort. “Let go, puppy. I’m going to sharpen my claws on them.”

“You’re not,” he argued mildly. “A hundred bucks says that they’re looking at Gunnar, and besides, you don’t really think that I’d be interested in them when I already have you?”

That seemed to placate her a little bit. Still she wrinkled her nose and scowled at him. “They ought not to stare at you like that. I _own_ you, remember?”

He chuckled. “Of course you do.”

“You sound like Mama,” Isabelle remarked with a smile.

Gunnar grunted. “Your mother only did that one time,” he pointed out.

Isabelle’s smile widened. “She only _had_ to do it once,” she retorted. “I guess word got around after that.”

Bas made a face. He’d heard about that, of course. Bellaniece hadn’t liked being subjected to a number of women that Kichiro had apparently gotten to know on an intimate level and had ended up taking her claws to the counter in a very posh establishment in Tokyo in an effort to warn off any of the women who still thought that Kichiro was on the market. Unfortunately, he could see Sydnie doing so much worse, and while he didn’t comment, he did tighten his hold on the often impetuous feline.

“I’m thirsty, puppy,” Sydnie suddenly said, her change in topics lightning fast despite the still-present scowl that she directed at the women who were still, in her opinion, ogling her man.

“Want some milk, kitty?” Bas asked.

“In a bar?” Sydnie asked with a high pitched giggle.

“But you don’t like beer,” he pointed out.

Sydnie heaved a sigh and shook her head before reaching over the table to snag Gunnar’s drink. She downed it before he could protest, thumping the glass down with a satisfied smile. “Your manners are deplorable, puss,” Gunnar pointed out despite the amused little smile that quirked on his lips.

She hopped up and darted around the table to slip into Gunnar’s lap, instead. “Buy me another,” she demanded, wrapping her arms around Gunnar’s neck.

“Absolutely,” he agreed, his lazy smile widening when Bas uttered a disgusted snort.

“Buy me one, too,” the already tipsy Isabelle said seconds before slamming back the rest of her drink. Standing up a little shakily, she leaned on the table for support before skirting around to drop onto Gunnar’s other knee.

Gunnar shook his head. “Why would I do that?” he countered.

“It’s my celebration, isn’t it?” she reminded him. “That’s why.”

Raising his hand to summon the waitress, Gunnar chuckled. “In that case . . .”

Sydnie gave Gunnar a little squeeze then hopped up to return to her place on Bas’ lap. “What are we celebrating?” Bas asked as Sydnie nudged her head under his chin.

Isabelle smiled at Bas, leaning toward him to pat his hand. “I’ve been cleared of all charges—completely exonerated, if you will! I’m an innocent woman—the inquisition board said so!”

He nodded and cracked a little grin though he had to wonder, really. She didn’t look like a person who had been just been cleared of any suspicion of malpractice, and while he realized that a large part of her mood could be attributed to her inability to get a certain college professor to talk to her, he also knew Isabelle well enough to know that she wasn’t nearly as pleased with the outcome as she would like to have them believe.

The waitress came back to deliver the drinks without a word. Gunnar sat back, watching as Isabelle downed hers in one long drought. “Was it ever a question about whether or not you’d be cleared of the charges?” Gunnar asked.

“Well,” she drawled, frowning at the empty glass as though she couldn’t quite figure out what had happened to the liquid it had contained. “Sure. There’s always a risk, isn’t there? I think I need another drink,” she stated, looking around for the waitress.

“Oh, I think you’ve had enough,” Gunnar said with a shake of his head since she was already slurring her words rather badly.

Her lips puckered in a moue, and she shook her head, batting at his shoulder in a pathetic effort to beat him into submission. “You’re a pooh, Gunnar . . . So is Griffin, did I tell you? He’s a Pooh like the bear, but you’re just a poopy-pooh.”

“Wow. That was quite an insult,” Gunnar deadpanned, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest.

Isabelle nodded, her expression grave. “It was, wasn’t it?” Turning suddenly, she stumbled to her feet and grabbed Sydnie’s hand. “C’mon!” she prodded, tugging until the cat-youkai stood up. “Let’s go do karaoke!”

“Oh, I’ve never done that before,” Sydnie intoned. “How do you do it?”

Isabelle fluttered a hand dismissively. “It’s easy. Just read the words on the screen.” She leaned in as though to tell Sydnie a secret. “The words light up when you’re supposed to sing ‘em.”

Bas shook his head as the two wandered away toward the small but well-lit stage off to the right. Heaving a sigh, he rubbed his forehead. “What do you think?” he asked.

Gunnar shrugged but didn’t take his eyes off the women as they conversed with the DJ. “I think she’s had more than enough to drink for one night.”

“Not about that,” he contradicted.

“Hmm . . . You mean about her innocence? You thought she’d done something wrong?”

“Of course not,” Bas said. “I mean about karaoke.”

“Oh, that,” Gunnar intoned. “Yeah, that’s bad.”

Bas sighed as the girls stepped up onto the stage. “Yeah,” he said with an inward wince. “That’s pretty much what I thought, too . . .”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

The hesitant knock on the door drew Alastair’s attention as he set aside the newspaper and slowly got to his feet. “Come,” he murmured, refusing to raise his voice. The door opened slowly.

“Do not lag about in the doorway,” Alastair commanded. “Why are you here?”

Jeremiah Willis reluctantly stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. Shifting nervously from one foot to the other, the young man looked like he’d rather be somewhere else. It was a reaction that Alastair was accustomed to.

“I’ve gotten some information on the Zelig, though I must say it’d be easier if I had an inkling as to what, exactly, you wish to know,” Willis remarked casually enough.

“Was I not explicit enough?” he asked, a warning buried in the depths of his tone.

Clearing his throat, he forced himself to meet Alastair’s unwavering stare, his eyes skittering to the side moments later. “No, my lord, not at all,” he blurted, cheeks reddening under Alastair’s close scrutiny. Stepping closer, he extended a slim black plastic folder. “This is everything I could gather without drawing undue attention.”

“Oh? Then you’d better pray that it is enough,” he intoned, his patience wearing thinner and thinner with every passing second.

Willis paled just slightly. “Understood.”

Sparing another minute to regard Willis thoughtfully, Alastair pushed the lock release on the thin side of the folder. The top popped open, and the monitor flashed to life. He touched the icon labeled ‘next of’, scowling thoughtfully at the first bio sheet that opened. Sebastian Zelig, complete with a candid photo opened. There was no way that he would have the research. Alastair touched the upper right corner of the screen to scroll to the next page.

The room was silent as he shuffled through the assembled information. The list was thorough enough, he had to allow. Willis was even able to garner a full educational history for each of them, as well.

It was ridiculously easy to decide who didn’t have the research. By the time he’d gone through the pages again, closing each one that he deemed irrelevant, he was left with only two, and interestingly, both were Kichiro Izayoi’s daughters. The older of the two was an obstetrician currently living in the States but she had minored in medical research in college while the younger was living in Japan working in a nationally accredited facility.

He frowned. On the outside, it would seem that the younger sister would be the most likely choice, but hadn’t he thought that before? Besides that, would the woman really have the time to devote to such a project if she were already working on something entirely different?

But the older sister . . . She lived in Maine and worked at a family practice. She would have much more time to devote to the research, wouldn’t she, not to mention the idea that she was close to Zelig. His intuition was telling him that she was the one to concentrate on, and his intuition was rarely wrong, after all. ‘ _Isabelle Izayoi_ ,’ he read, his gaze flicking over the supplied image. There was no mistaking her, was there? She shared the same coloring as the Zelig . . .

“This one,” he said, shoving the electronic file into Willis’ hands.

He blinked in surprise then scowled at the screen. “Her?”

“Aye,” Alastair said with finality. “She’s the one who has it, and I want you to get it back for me.”

“Get it back for you,” he echoed with a shake of his head. “What am I trying to get . . .?”

Alastair’s lips curled back in a visceral grin—a cold expression that made Willis take an involuntary step back. “I’ll explain that to you, Willis, after you’ve found her. Do you understand?’

Willis nodded slowly, his Adam’s apple obscenely bobbing as he forced himself to swallow. “Y-yes, my lord . . . absolutely.”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle leaned heavily on Gunnar’s arm as the latter entered the access code on the panel beside her door. “You don’t have to go inside with me,” she pointed out, her words slurring together.

“I know,” he said dryly, pushing the door open when the panel beeped softly. “Come on, Izzy. Kami, you’re a mess.”

“I am not a mess,” she argued, slowly shaking her head. “I’m perfectly fine, you know. You just worry too much.”

“You think so?” he asked mildly as he kicked the door closed and led her over to the sofa.

“Yes, I do. You’re entirely too nosy, I’ll have you know.”

He chuckled as she took a rather unladylike dive onto the sofa, smashing her face into the cushions and mumbling something entirely unintelligible. Gunnar shook his head and strode off toward the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee for her.

Everything had gone pretty much downhill after the karaoke moment. He’d known it before, but he’d had to suffer the terrible reminder that his darling cousin simply couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket to save her life, and worse, Sydnie wasn’t really that much better. Of course, he supposed that some of it could have been due to the fact that both women were on the drunken side of things when they’d marched onto that stage. Still, the men in the bar had still been more than happy to cheer the girls on—not at all surprising given that Gunnar seriously doubted they cared what the girls did so long as they could stare at them for a while, which, of course, had Bas nearly seething.

Gunnar shook his head as he filled the carafe with water for the coffee. Bas was entirely too anal when it came to his mate. It was a trademark of the men in his family, he supposed. How often had he seen his father don that ridiculously overprotective demeanor when men admired his mother? In his estimation, taking a mate was akin to being made a fool of for the rest of his life—something that Gunnar would absolutely not abide.

Love turned perfectly reasonable men into blithering idiots, damn it. If he’d heard the story once, he’d heard it a thousand times, how his father had actually helped his mother leave him when she’d figured out that she was pregnant with Gunnar, and all because he didn’t want her overdoing it in her ‘condition’. Everyone else thought that the story was a riot. Gunnar knew better. It was absolutely humiliating.

He supposed that he might feel differently had it only been one isolated incident, but it wasn’t. He’d seen examples of it all too often over the years. Sierra Crawford Inutaisho didn’t really _try_ to get her way in the classic sense, but the end result had been the same. Her sense of quiet displeasure was more than enough to make her husband rethink his decisions over and over again, and while Toga had always given in with a little smile, maintaining that Sierra was right, after all, Gunnar couldn’t quite reconcile himself to the idea that his father—the tai-youkai, for the love of kami—would be so willing to give in when he ought to have stood his ground.

Leaning against the counter as he waited for the coffee to brew, Gunnar heaved a sigh and rubbed his forehead. To be fair, he loved his parents dearly, and he respected his father as the Japanese tai-youkai. He’d be the first to admit that his mother was a fabulous woman; one he adored and held in the highest of regard. His father, too, was a fair and honest man who held his post as the tai-youkai with dignity and honor. Sierra never butted in when it came to youkai affairs, but when the doors were closed in the little empire she called home, there wasn’t a doubt in anyone’s minds exactly who was in charge there.

And the worst of it, in his mind, at least, was that as strong as Toga might be, when it came to the women in his life, he was just a big marshmallow. His sisters had a horrible habit of being able to cajole their way into and out of every conceivable situation and all Toga ever did was smile and indulge them. It was . . . it was . . . He made a face. It was deplorable, that’s what it was. Sure, he loved his sisters. He simply couldn’t abide being too close to any of them for any real length of time, and while it may have had a lot to do with the fact that they all still treated him like he was a pup, he knew damn well that it was enough to set his hackles rising that they’d always— _always_ —ran to Papa to fix every little thing . . .

He sighed and shook his head, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind that nagged at him, telling him that he really was just being an ass, after all.

After pulling a mug from the cupboard, Gunnar poured the coffee and strode back into the living room again. “Here,” he said, sitting on the sofa and tugging Isabelle into an upright position.

She whimpered in protest and made a face when he carefully stuck the coffee mug into her hands. “I don’t want this,” she pointed out with a sad shake of her head.

Rolling his eyes, he steadied her hands to keep her from spilling the coffee. “I know you don’t,” he informed her. “Drink it anyway.”

“Why do you hate me?” she whined, trying in vain to shove the cup away.

Gunnar chuckled. “I don’t hate you, Isabelle. Now be good and drink that coffee.”

“You’re just trying to kill my buzz,” she asserted, narrowing her eyes and leaning toward him.

“Yes, I am,” he agreed.

She heaved a sigh and lifted the mug to her lips. “Ugh,” she sputtered, using her elbow to shove him back and setting the mug on the coffee table with a dull thud. “I refuse to drink any more of that if you refuse to let me have sugar.”

“Hmm, yeah, drunk _and_ wired on sugar; I think I’ll pass.”

She wrinkled her nose then shook her head sadly. “Why are all you men such jerks?” she demanded, blinking quickly as the scent of tears accosted Gunnar’s nose. He could only blink at the mercurial shift in her mood.

Digging around in his pockets for a crisp white handkerchief, Gunnar offered it to Isabelle seconds before the first tear fell. “You ought to warn me before you start crying,” he pointed out in an effort to change her mood.

She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes. “Griffin says my leaking will flood him out of house and home,” she ventured sadly.

“Yeah, well, your Griffin’s a—”

Whipping her head to the side, she pinned him with a fierce glower. “Don’t you _dare_ finish that,” she warned, the overall effect she was going for, thwarted by the sniffle that followed.

“Keh,” he snorted, but didn’t bother trying to point out that the reason she was so unhappy was because of that damned bear-youkai, after all.

“Do you think he misses me? At all?” she asked in a tiny voice.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say something completely snide, but the look on her face stopped him. As much as he hated to admit it, he never could stand to see Isabelle looking so forlorn. “He’d be a damn fool not to,” he muttered instead. “Here. Give me your feet.”

She sniffled again but shifted to the side, drawing her feet up and dropping them in Gunnar’s lap. He grimaced and shook his head as he eyed the unearthly contraptions that she called shoes. “Why the hell did you wear these?” he demanded, scowling at the shiny buckles that ran the length of the boot.

“They’re cute, don’t you think?” she asked, turning her feet to either side, struggling to sit up so that she could better admire them.

Heaving a sigh, Gunnar pushed her back and started picking at the top buckle. “Cute isn’t exactly the first word that came to mind, no,” he ventured. “More like, pain in the ass or something . . .”

She giggled weakly—an entirely pathetic sort of thing, all things considered. “Why is it that you can be such a sweet man sometimes and a complete baka at others?”

Smiling wanly at Isabelle’s choice of words, Gunnar tugged the buckles free and dropped the first shoe on the floor. “A baka? I think not.”

Resting her head on the arm of the sofa, she regarded him through half-closed eyes. “I keep thinking that he’ll show up to tell me that I have to come home, that he can’t live without me . . .”

Unable to suppress the need to roll his eyes at the melodramatic assertion, Gunnar snorted and shook his head. “Oh, please, Izzy. Do you really believe that life is like the movies?”

Heaving a sigh, she looked entirely too sad in Gunnar’s estimation. “Of course not,” she murmured. “I just _wish_ it was.”

Dropping the other shoe onto the floor, he pushed her feet off his lap and brushed at his slacks. “You’re entirely too naïve, you know. You’ve always been that way, haven’t you?”

“I’d hardly call myself naïve,” she said mildly, pushing herself up and tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m a hopeless romantic; that’s all.”

He narrowed his eyes as he leaned down to look into her face. Whether it was late effects of the booze or something a little deeper, she looked like she was going to cry. ‘ _No, not the alcohol_ ,’ he thought slowly, knowing deep down that he’d caught glimpses of that same emotion throughout the evening meant for celebration. “Come here,” he said, tugging her to him and pulling her against his side. “I thought you said that you were happy about the outcome of the inquiry.”

“I am,” she said in a tiny voice.

“You could have fooled me.”

She shrugged, knitting her fingers together in a perverse conflagration of wiggling flesh. Gunnar grimaced, restraining the desire to reach over and forcibly separate her fingers. “Why shouldn’t I be? I’ll be able to go into the office tomorrow with my head held high and pretend that all is right in the world, and even if that’s true, what does it matter? Nothing’s going to bring their little girl back. See, Mamoruzen, I’ve learned something.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

She smiled sadly. “Every good thing that happens has its bad side. Look at me, for instance. I can go on with my life and pretend that nothing ever happened, but the McKinleys? What sort of comfort will they be able to find?”

“It wasn’t something you ever intended to do,” he pointed out reasonably. “You didn’t do anything wrong, and that’s why they were forced to drop the charges. Don’t worry about it, Izzy. If you do . . .” he trailed off with a sigh, offering Isabelle a simple shrug since he wasn’t about to try to explain away something that really didn’t make any sense. “If you do, then you’re just going to drive yourself crazy.”

“Crazy . . . right . . .”

That didn’t comfort her in the least, and Gunnar shook his head. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry that you had to go through all that,” he murmured, squeezing her shoulders.

She was silent for a few minutes, lost in contemplation, he supposed. He was almost starting to think that maybe she’d fallen asleep when she finally spoke again. “He loves me,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I know he does.”

“Why don’t you go to sleep?” Gunnar suggested, ignoring her commentary since he really couldn’t think of a single nice thing to say.

She uttered a soft little sound, a keening sort of whimper. “He used to come into my room at night and just . . . sit beside me. I think sometimes he talked to me, but I . . . I never remembered exactly what he said . . .”

“Love is entirely overrated,” he remarked dryly, shifting so that he could stretch out on the sofa, tugging Isabelle down beside him. “It’s just a fabrication made up to sell candy on Valentine’s Day and to make men spend their hard earned money on a woman’s whim.”

That earned him a darkened scowl. “You can’t really believe that.”

“Can’t I?” he challenged.

She snorted. “No. If love doesn’t exist, then what about your parents? They love each other, you know.”

“So they’ve bought into the illusion. I tell you now, Izzy, it’s all just a mirage.”

“Hmm, and one day that mirage will come back to bite you in the ass, you know, and when that day comes, my dearest cousin, you’ll be eating your words.”

“As if I’d ever let someone else dictate my thoughts and actions,” he scoffed. “It’ll never happen.”

She let out a deep breath and smothered a yawn with the back of her hand. “You can’t really ignore convention,” she pointed out reasonably as she snuggled close to him. “You more than anyone should know that. You’re going to have to have an heir, and you can’t do that without taking a mate.”

“I never said I wouldn’t take a mate,” he reiterated.

“And that cannot be done without falling in love,” she insisted.

Rolling his eyes at the entirely too triumphant tone in her voice, Gunnar reached over, flicking Isabelle’s nose with the tip of his finger. “It can,” he replied simply. “One does not need to have one’s better judgment clouded by what you call love. It’s all a matter of biology, Izzy. I’ll have my heir, and my wife will understand that she will not overstep her bounds.”

“Spoken like a true tyrant,” she muttered. “I take back what I said earlier. You’re a _complete_ jerk _all_ the time.”

He chuckled. “Shut up and go to sleep, wench. I’ll stay till you do.”

“Remember when we were little, and that boy pushed me down and I scraped my knee?”

Gunnar blinked and nodded. “Sure.”

She closed her eyes and shifted to make herself more comfortable. “You carried me all the way home on your back . . .”

He almost smiled. “You kept crying when you tried to walk.”

“You beat him up because he pushed me,” she murmured. He could hear the trace lethargy stealing into her voice.

“Never strike a woman,” he recited. “I supposed that applied to weak little cousins, too.”

“Mmm . . . I felt so safe with you, you know.”

“You _were_ safe with me, Izzy. You still are.”

She nodded. “That’s how . . . I feel . . . when I’m with . . . Griffin . . .”

His smile faded as he watched her drift off to sleep. He hadn’t noticed the darkened circles under her eyes. She’d brushed powder or something over them, hadn’t she? Trying to hide her marked lack of sleep from everyone; maybe even from herself . . .

‘ _Griffin Marin_ . . .’ The man was a fool—a complete and utter fool, and the only thing that saved Gunnar from getting up and marching right over to the fool’s house was the sight of her, soundly sleeping, and he knew damn well that it was the idea that she wasn’t alone that lent her that sense of peace.

He’d always protected Isabelle, hadn’t he? He couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t warning off potential boyfriends or trying to decide whether or not someone was simply trying to use her. Old habits died hard, didn’t they, and watching out for her . . .

With a sigh, Gunnar settled more comfortably on the sofa, careful not to disturb Isabelle. The clock on the wall read four a.m., and he sighed and closed his eyes. If she could get one decent night’s rest because he was there, then he supposed that a sore back from sleeping on a sofa that was too small for his frame was the least of his worries in the long run.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Gunnar_** :  
>  _Two words: tone. Deaf_.


	50. Frantic

Grimacing as he jerked his head to the side and smashed his nose against his bicep in a valiant effort to keep from sneezing, Griffin sniffled loudly and grunted as he reached higher to scrub at the inside of the chimney.

Normally he didn’t have to clean the damn thing until spring, but he’d decided to do it early since he’d been burning more and larger fires during the winter because of Isabelle’s presence, especially in the basement so that the floor above would be warm. Normally he only bothered to build up a fire big enough to take the chill out of the air, and he didn’t mind having the house a little on the cooler side, but he’d also realized that she would have been cold otherwise. To be honest, he didn’t usually bother with turning on the heat in the house, either, but he’d done that, too. She really had turned his life upside down, hadn’t she?

He sighed. Of course she did, and it was entirely distraction that he hadn’t needed. He was _glad_ she was gone, wasn’t he?

‘ _Don’t answer that_ ,’ he told himself sternly as a build up of ash dislodged and rained down. Griffin ducked out of the fireplace just in time to avoid getting a face full of soot.

The sudden intonation of a strangely familiar song cut through the stillness of the house. Scowling in confusion, he pushed himself to his feet and pulled off the bandana he’d tied on as a mask. He couldn’t quite remember where he’d heard the song before. Turning his head from side to side as he tried to ascertain where the noise was coming from, he headed for the stairs.

A vague flash of memory took root in his mind: one of the little girls in the preschool where he volunteered had a stuffed animal—Winnie the Pooh—who sang a song that sounded remarkably like the one coming from upstairs. But why would he be hearing that song . . .? Eyes widening, he snatched the smudged glasses off his face as late realization ebbed through him. Quickening his pace with a growl of exasperation aimed at the song that the insane woman had programmed into that damned cell phone she’d given him for Christmas, he nearly tripped in his rush. Irritation aside, he couldn’t help the surge of absolute panic that shot through him—panic that he didn’t fully comprehend. She was the only one who would have that number. He hadn’t bothered to give it to anyone else, and while she’d come over numerous times, she hadn’t tried to call; not once.

But it was more than that, wasn’t it? Why couldn’t he shake the feeling deep down that something was terribly wrong?

Stopping at the top of the stairs for just a moment, he tried to remember where he’d stuck that phone. ‘ _The desk_ ,’ he realized. Lengthening his stride, he hurried over, shoving things aside in an effort to locate the device.

“H-Hello?” he said, smashing the phone to his ear. The music kept playing, and he uttered a frustrated growl, lowering it once more and scowling at the keypad. “A million damn buttons . . . which one . . .?” he mumbled. One of them kept flashing at him, illuminated from beneath the key. Pushing the button as he mentally cursed his thick fingers, he held the device up a little cautiously. “Isabelle?”

The sound of muffled crying greeted him, but she didn’t respond. “I-Isabelle?” he said again, forcing himself to lower his tone, forcing himself not to panic.

She sniffled and whimpered softly. “Grif-fin?” she choked out between hiccups. “He’s not moving, and I don’t know what to do,” she half sobbed.

“What? What? Who?” he demanded a bit more harshly than he’d intended.

His questions only served to make her wail louder, and what he figured were supposed to be words came out as a high pitched garble.

He winced, despising the helpless feeling that was fast coming over him. “Isabelle, you have to calm down. Who’s hurt?”

She choked back a sob. “My baby,” she whimpered.

He shook his head, unable to comprehend exactly who she was talking about. Striding through the living room, he headed into the foyer to tug on his shoes. “I’m coming over, okay? Just . . . d-don’t hang up . . . Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she squeaked. “He’s _bleeding!_ ” she wailed, hysteria creeping into her voice.

“What happened?” he asked in what he could only hope was a reasonable tone. Catching the phone between his shoulder and his ear, he shrugged on his coat and yanked the door open.

“I d-don’t know,” she sniffled, her voice cracking. He winced at the ungodly squeak but kept the phone plastered against his head.

He pulled the door closed behind him but didn’t bother with locking it, breaking into a sprint before he ever cleared the porch. “You’re home, right? Your house?”

“Yes,” she sniffled. “Help me! Please help me!”

“I know,” he said, soothing her as best as he could over the phone. “It’s all right. I’m . . . I’m on my way, okay?”

She broke into a fresh round of sobs. “He-he-he’s just a b-ba-baby,” she cried.

She was close to hysteria, he figured as he pushed himself faster.   Vaulting onto the top of the small grocery store at the end of the block, Griffin ignored the trace burn that had set into his right hip. Her upset was a powerful thing, reaching him despite the distance between them and leaving him with the impotent desire to drive away whatever it was that hurt her.

Crossing over the rooftops as he headed straight to Isabelle’s home, he mumbled things that she didn’t understand—ridiculous things meant to calm her. It worked, to an extent though not nearly as well as he might have liked. She was still sobbing, but it was a bit quieter, and she seemed to understand that he was almost there. “I c-can’t stop the bl-bleeding,” she whimpered. “I can’t stop it! I ca—”

“Isabelle!” he growled tersely. “Stop it!”

His tone cut through the anxiety that gripped her. She whimpered and sniffled. “O-okay,” she allowed in a shaky breath. “Please hurry . . .”

Griffin dropped off the top of a nearby apartment building into the darkness of an alley. “It’s all right,” he told her for what had to be the millionth time. “I’m almost th . . .”

Trailing off as he strode out of the alley and stopped short, he scowled at the door of her house. Hanging wide open with wan light spilling out, she hadn’t bothered to close it when she’d walked inside, damn it.

Forcing himself to take it slow, he glanced up and down the street before darting across and up the steps onto her porch, grimacing at the overwhelming scent of blood that reached him long before he ever stepped over the threshold.

He spotted her on the floor covered in blood and clinging onto the lifeless body of her beloved dog in the midst of complete disarray. Shoulders shaking as she held the phone to her ear, she sobbed quietly. He wasn’t sure if she even realized that he was there as he strode over to her, tossing his cell phone toward the sofa without bothering to shut it off. Uttering a harsh curse under his breath, he had to step over the piles of books that had been yanked off the shelves and tossed around the room haphazardly.   The place had been thoroughly ransacked, but all of that took second place in his mind as he grabbed Isabelle’s arm and pulled her to her feet. “Are you hurt?” he demanded, his eyes raking over her as he tried to discern whether it was just the dog’s blood he smelled or not. “Answer me!”

“Fro-ofie,” she whimpered. “Help me, Griffin!”

“Damn it, Isabelle, are _you_ hurt?” he growled, shaking her just enough to snap her out of her rising hysteria.

“Uh, n-no,” she murmured, the tinge of hysteria rising like a malignant vapor. She blinked quickly and shook her head, tugging her arms out of his grasp and dropping to her knees again. “Help me; help me!” she whispered, her voice harsh with emotion.

Closing his eyes against the wash of relief that surged through him, he let out a deep breath and swallowed hard. Satisfied that she wasn’t hurt, he knelt beside her and grimaced at the sight of the dog. A deep slash ran down the length of his side, and for a moment, he thought that the animal was already gone. “I-Isabelle, I . . . I don’t think –”

As though in response to Griffin’s voice, Charlie’s tail thumped just once. “He’s still alive?” he said, more of a question than a statement. “Call your vet,” he commanded as he yanked off his coat and wrapped it around the dog. “Tell ‘em we’re bringing him in. Can you do that?”

She didn’t look like she quite understood, but she nodded and groped around for her phone. “Okay,” she said with a nod. “He . . . he’ll be okay, right?”

“Y-Yeah,” Griffin replied in a tone that sounded completely unconvincing as he wrapped the dog in his coat and carefully picked him up. “Give me your keys. Hurry.”

She ran over to grab the purse she’d dropped just inside the doorway. “He’ll be okay,” she repeated, digging her keys out and handing them over before delving back into her purse for her cell. “Yes, this is Isabelle Izayoi. I’m sorry for calling so late,” she said, pacing in a small circle as she spoke into the phone. “Froofie’s hurt . . .”

“Come on,” he called over his shoulder, maneuvering through the disheveled room and outside. “Where’s your vet’s office?”

“The one on Main Street,” she said, snapping the cell closed and darting around him to open the car door.

“Dr. Brandon?”

“Yes.”

She slipped into the back seat of her car to sit with the dog. Griffin laid him carefully on the seat and got in behind the steering wheel. “What happened?” he demanded as he pulled onto the street and glanced at her in the rear view mirror. “Did someone break in?”

Wiping her eyes with the back of a shaking hand, she nodded. “It was like that when I got home. I found Froofie . . .” Choking on a sob, she hunched over, hugging Charlie’s limp body tight. “Why would someone _do_ this?”

“I don’t know,” he told her, his jaw ticking at the first hints of suspicion that entered his mind. Shaking his head quickly—he needed to concentrate, for Isabelle’s sake—he pulled into the empty parking lot in front of the veterinary clinic.

She got out of the car and stood, wringing her hands as Griffin carefully lifted Charlie. Grimacing when the dog let out a pained whimper, he adjusted the animal as best as he could as he followed Isabelle toward the office.

The lights inside flickered to life seconds before Isabelle tapped on the door. Her anxiety had lessened but it was still a viable thing that he couldn’t ignore. ‘ _Don’t you dare die, Charlie. Do you hear me?_ ’ he thought as he frowned at the animal in his arms.

Dr. Brandon opened the door and held it as the two stepped inside. “Bring him back here,” she said, striding past them to lead the way to the examination room. “I gathered from your call that he was pretty bad off. My assistant should be here shortly, but let’s see what’s going on here.”

“Y-you can help him?” Isabelle pleaded, stroking Charlie’s neck and choking back more tears. “You can save him, right?”

“I’ll do everything I can,” she assured Isabelle with a wry smile. Griffin carefully laid Charlie on the examination table and pulled Isabelle back firmly when the doctor stepped over to pull the coat off him. “How’d this happen?” she asked without taking her eyes off the dog’s wounds.

Isabelle whimpered when Dr. Brandon uncovered the lacerations traversing the animal’s side. “I think her house was robbed,” he supplied, tightening his grip on Isabelle’s shoulders when she made a move to pull away.

“Did you call the authorities?” she asked without looking away from Charlie.

Griffin grunted. He knew her too well to even consider the idea that she’d have called the police before attending to her precious dog. “I brought her straight here when I got there, so I doubt it.”

Dr. Brandon nodded and leaned over to grab a pair of rubber gloves. “Okay. Why don’t you two wait out there while I check Froofie?”

“Charlie,” Griffin intoned automatically.

“Excuse me?” the woman said, sparing him a questioning glance as she tugged the gloves on.

“His name is Charlie.”

The woman looked confused for a moment but shook it off as she slipped the stethoscope into position. “I need to get him stabilized right now,” she said gently albeit firmly. “I’ll be out to talk to you as soon as I assess his injuries and all that.”

“Come on, Isabelle,” Griffin said, turning her toward the doorway.

She pulled away and skittered back to the gurney again. “I’m a doctor,” she blurted. “I can help, can’t I?”

Griffin drew her back once more, tightening his grip on her shoulders when she tried to pull away again. “You’re a people doctor, not a vet,” he mumbled. “Let her do her job.”

“But I—”

“Isabelle.”

She grimaced and shot Charlie a worried glance before finally nodding and letting Griffin guide her out of the emergency room.

Heaving a sigh, he let his hands drop from her shoulders as she shook her arms, the sleeves of her oversized cream sweater tumbling down over her fingers as she started to pace back and forth. He patted his pockets only to remember a moment too late that he had tossed his cell phone aside before he’d picked up the dog. “Do you have your phone?” he asked, breaking the anxious quiet as he absently wished he’d thought to grab something else for her to wear. She was covered with Charlie’s blood, and that certainly couldn’t be helping her to calm down . . .

She shot him a bewildered sort of glance but didn’t stop pacing. “My—? Oh, yeah . . . um . . .”

He waited patiently as she dug the phone out of her purse and dropped it in his palm. Her fingers were streaked crimson with dried blood, and he winced inwardly at the stains marring the pristine sweater. “I’m going to call your . . . your grandfather. He’d want to know.”

She nodded quickly, her fingers gripping the cuffs of her sleeves, and she crossed her arms over her chest, blinking rapidly to dispel more rising tears.

It only took him a minute to figure out how to operate the device. Scrolling through the numbers stored in the cell phone’s memory, he shot her a cursory glance as he selected Zelig’s phone number.

“Isabelle?” Cain Zelig’s unmistakable voice greeted warmly after the third ring.

“Uh, no. Um, this is . . . G-G-Griffin. Marin,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Cain hesitated before answering. “Uh—o-oh, Dr. Marin. Is everything all right?”

He grimaced, glancing at Isabelle who was alternating her gaze from the floor to the doorway and back again as she paced. A very tired looking woman hurried into the waiting room and straight to the room where Charlie was without bothering to acknowledge their presence, which was probably for the best. “Actually, no,” he admitted, lowering his voice. With as intently as she was eyeing the door that he’d escorted her through, he highly doubted that she was paying even the slightest bit of attention to him. Still . . . “Isabelle’s house was vandalized, and . . . and her dog . . . well, we’re at the vet’s office right now.”

“Froofie?”

Griffin snorted. “ _Charlie_ ,” he corrected almost irritably. “He’s hurt pretty bad.”

“But Isabelle’s okay?” Cain demanded.

“She’s a little shook up, but she’s all right.” His frown darkened slightly as he straightened his shoulders in an almost defiant sort of way. “I’m not taking her back to that house. She’s not safe there.”

“No, of course not,” the tai-youkai agreed. “I’ll be there in about an hour to get her. Would you mind staying with her until then?”

“No,” Griffin stated flatly, his grip tightening on the phone.

“. . . Come again?” Cain said.

Griffin cleared his throat, forcing down the belligerence that shot to the fore. “I said, ‘no’.”

“If you’re busy—”

“I meant, no, there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you take her anywhere,” he growled.

Cain didn’t respond to that right away, and when he did, he spoke very slowly. “What do you mean?” Cain asked slowly, a hint of foreboding in his tone.

Licking his lips, Griffin grimaced, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he had to wonder exactly how he was able to find the bravado to say these things. “I’m saying that _you_ put her in danger,” he growled through clenched teeth.

“Pardon me?”

“I don’t think so,” Griffin snorted. “It’s _your_ damn research they’re looking for. Bank on it.”

“The—? H-How do you know about the research?”

Griffin rubbed his forehead. “Because I’ve got it,” he admitted, a trace amount of his frustration ebbing away. “I’m translating it for her, but I figured . . .” Raking a hand through is hair, he shook his head. “I thought if they came after it that they’d . . . come after me.”

“They? They, who?” Cain demanded.

Containing the urge to growl, Griffin reminded himself that there was a good possibility that Zelig really didn’t know everything that Griffin did. “That guy you picked up, Avis? He wasn’t dangerous; isn’t that why you exiled him?”

Cain considered that. “I assure you; we had him completely checked.”

Sighing at the warily indignant tone of Zelig’s voice, Griffin rubbed the back of his neck, sparing Isabelle a worried glance. She was staring at the emergency room door again as though she were willing someone to walk out to talk to her and not paying the least bit of attention to Griffin, who rubbed his face in exasperation and lowered his voice a notch. “I’m sure you did, but . . . there were some things in the journal that implied . . . Jillian? That’s her name, right?”

“Yes . . .” Cain allowed.

“The journal implied that someone was trying to pressure them into handing over their research, and it could just be me, but . . . but her biological father . . . He was a water-youkai.”

“Okay.”

Griffin sighed again. “But he supposedly drowned.”

Zelig was silent for a minute, considering the information that Griffin was giving him. Shoving aside the trace guilt that he should have spoken up sooner, Griffin waited, grinding his teeth together as he waited for the verdict. “Water-youkai don’t drown,” he muttered, drawing the same conclusion that Griffin had before.

Cain cleared his throat. “I’d like to see this journal, myself, but if Isabelle’s in danger, I think she belongs here with me. I’ll call one of my hunters to—”

Taking a deep breath, he hesitated only for a moment before responding. “She’s coming home with me,” he stated flatly. “I’ll . . . I’ll protect her, but you can have the journal if you want it. I’m almost finished translating the research, too.”

Cain cleared his throat. “You’ll . . . protect her.”

Tamping down the uncertainty that nagged him, he swallowed hard. “Y-Yes.”

“And you know what that means?” Cain asked though not unkindly.

“. . . Yes.”

Cain sighed as Griffin shifted uneasily. He wasn’t entirely certain where he’d found the wherewithal to challenge the tai-youkai, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the panic in Isabelle’s voice, and the unerring belief she’d shown in him when she’d begged him to help her dog. “I’ll, uh, send my son over to Isabelle’s house to check it out. I trust nothing was moved?”

“Not that I know of. Uh, my phone’s there.”

“I’ll have Bas drop off some of Isabelle’s things. You think whoever broke in was looking for the research?”

Griffin grunted. “There are bigger, nicer houses on that street,” he said reasonably. “Why would they target her place otherwise?”

“Right. I trust you’ll call me if anything else happens?”

“I will.”

Cain paused before responding, clearing his throat before he finally spoke. “Take care of her, Dr. Marin.”

Griffin’s gaze lifted to the woman in question. “I will,” he replied.

The connection went dead, and Griffin heaved a sigh, shutting off the phone and rubbing his forehead before he shuffled over to Isabelle. “Give them some time,” he said in a softer than normal tone.

She jumped and swung around to face him, her eyes bright with concern, with her upset, but she nodded, her gaze slipping to the side as her chin trembled precariously, as the brine of her tears filled his nostrils. “I know,” she squeaked in a very un-Isabelle-like voice.

Scowling as the unsettling feeling that he was completely out of his element crashed over him, Griffin slowly reached out and rather clumsily pulled her against his chest. “You’re going to shrivel up if you don’t stop leaking,” he rumbled, wishing that he was a little better with this sort of thing.

She uttered a roughened, choked laugh. “I-I’m sorry,” she said, her voice muffled by his chest, thickened by her tears. “I just . . . I didn’t know who else to call . . .”

“Don’t worry about it,” he told her. “Charlie’ll . . . He’ll be fine.”

“Y-Yeah,” she agreed, sounding more hopeful than convinced.

The whoosh of the emergency room door interrupted them, and Isabelle straightened up, turning around quickly though she didn’t step away from Griffin.

Dr. Brandon rubbed her hands together, offering Isabelle a tentative smile. “He’s starting to respond to the meds we’ve given him, but he’s not completely stabilized as yet. We still need to run some tests, but it looks like he’s going to need surgery to repair some internal bleeding—not bad, though. He’s lucky. He’s got a couple fractured ribs, so he’ll be in a bit of pain for a while, and he’s lost a lot of blood. We’re giving him a blood transfusion now. We’ll be able to get some more definitive answers after the results of the tests come back, but for now, we’ve got him sedated and on oxygen. Why don’t you go home, Isabelle? We’ll do everything we can, and hopefully you’ll be able to see him tomorrow.”

“But—”

“He doesn’t need you fussing over him,” Griffin pointed out. “Besides, you’re a mess.”

“What if something happens?” she demanded, peering up at Griffin in a pleading sort of way.

“Then they’ll call,” he said.

“Absolutely,” Dr. Brandon said.

Isabelle didn’t look at all placated despite the resignation in her slumped shoulders. “Can I see him? Just . . . Just for a minute?”

Dr. Brandon sighed. “Okay, but just for a minute. We’re still monitoring everything since he was suffering from shock when you brought him in.”

Isabelle nodded quickly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. She shot Griffin a quick glance, and he followed, understanding her unvoiced plea.

Grimacing at the tubes and machines arranged around the gurney, Griffin stopped just inside the door to allow the doctor more room to navigate through the maze of technology. A compress was arranged over the widest part of the lacerations running down the length of Charlie’s side and the naked pink flesh around the ragged wounds was disturbing. They’d shaved his fur away in order to better assess the wounds, he supposed. An oxygen tube jutted out of Charlie’s nose, and he didn’t open his eyes when Isabelle gently stroked his neck. His rear paw twitched, but that was likely just a reflexive action. The bare skin seemed to add emphasis to the labored, shallow breathing, and Griffin scowled at the small machine that the doctor’s assistant wheeled over on a cart before she hurried around to pull Charlie’s mouth open then adjusting the IV drip.

Isabelle leaned down to kiss the animal’s knobby head. She murmured something to him that Griffin couldn’t quite discern before hesitantly stepping away.

Griffin stepped forward, placing a hand on her shoulder as she stepped back. Though she didn’t turn away from the sight of her dog, she did reach up to squeeze his hand.

“Come on,” he said, leaning down to speak in her ear. “They’ll call if there’s anything.”

“All right,” she agreed reluctantly, turning to let Griffin lead her from the room.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Extra special thanks to inuyoukaimama for her awesome report on emergency procedures for Froofie/Charlie. Thanks tons_!
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
> … _Isabelle_ …


	51. Middle Ground

Isabelle groaned softly and burrowed deeper under the thick blanket, unwilling to let go to the last remnants of sleep that clung to her. There was something waiting for her—something that she really didn’t want to think about, and if she opened her eyes, she’d have to deal with it, wouldn’t she?

Still, the intrusion of cognizant thought was too relentless, and when a dull thumping erupted somewhere in the quiet house, she let out a soft whimper and reluctantly sat up.

Blinking as she looked around, it took her a minute to figure out where she was. She wasn’t entirely familiar with the room, and her numbed brain didn’t seem to want to kick over, either. The darkened wood surrounding her lent a comforting feel—strange, she would have thought that it would be a little daunting, but no . . .

Or maybe . . .

Maybe it was the scent that was so familiar to her, so comforting that it brought tears to her eyes. ‘ _Griffin_ . . .’

Everywhere she turned, she could smell him, and gradually, like ice melting in a warm spring breeze, it came to her. ‘ _This is . . . Griffin’s room . . .? Yes, yes it is_ . . .’

He’d brought her in here last night, hadn’t he? After they’d gotten home from the veterinary clinic . . . She’d been so lost in her concern for her dog that she hadn’t even realized where he was taking her until he’d shoved a glass of water into her hand along with a couple of nondescript white pills that he’d said would help her to sleep.

“Froofie . . .”

Vaulting out of the bed and wracking her ankle against the nightstand in her haste, she grimaced and gasped but stumbled out of the bedroom and down the hallway to the living room. Griffin stood just inside the entrance from the foyer, and when he glanced up at her, his signature scowl in place, she headed straight toward him. “Did they call?” she blurted, grabbing his arm and squeezing.

He winced and grunted, pulling on his arm in an attempt to get her to loosen her grip. “Are you trying to maim me, and yes, they did.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” she hollered, letting go of him and whipping around to go find some clothes.

He caught her hand and pulled her back despite her efforts to tug away. “Calm down, will you? The doctor said that you can come see him tomorrow. They had to wait until he was fully stabilized, but they’re going to have to do some surgery to repair some internal bleeding and to put a pin in his hip, so he’ll be under anesthesia for a while today. It’ll be easier for them to get this stuff done if you give them time to do it.”

“What if he needs me?”

Griffin shook his head, catching her upper arms and holding her still. “Don’t they say that dogs can sense their owners’ emotions? Do you really think that your upset would be good for him? You trust Dr. Brandon, right? He’s in good hands, don’t you think?”

She didn’t want to agree with him. She wanted to argue his logic. Put that way, though, she couldn’t, not really. With a defeated slump of her shoulders, she nodded. “You’re right,” she said quietly, wishing that he wasn’t. “He’ll be okay, won’t he?”

The expression on his face was inscrutable, but he tried to smile, and for that, she was grateful. “Yeah,” he said with a nod. “He’ll be just fine.”

“I . . . I’m okay now,” she lied in a small voice. “If you want me to go home . . .”

His snort was louder and dryer than usual. “Your house was ransacked, Isabelle,” he reminded her.

She winced. “Then I can go to a hotel . . . or Grandpa’s . . .”

“Forget it,” he rumbled. “You’re fine here.”

“But you don’t want me here,” she whispered, unable to meet his gaze. A sudden surge of shame washed over her. Did he think that she’d called him just to get him to bring her here? How pathetic did it seem, really?

“Your grandfather knows you’re here,” he said with a sigh. “Besides. Bevelle’s a hell of a commute.”

“I didn’t mean to call you,” she admitted with a miserable shake of her head. “I just . . . just dialed the phone . . .”

“It’s all right,” he assured her, letting go of her arms and turning away. “I was probably closer . . . and . . . I’m . . . glad . . . you called me.”

Letting her chin drop, she frowned at the oversized flannel shirt—Griffin’s shirt—that she didn’t remember putting on. Even the quick shower she took was hazy in her mind, but she supposed that was all right, too. None of her thoughts from the night before were good, and though she was still concerned, she had to allow that Griffin’s quiet presence was enough to soothe the edges of the hysteria that wasn’t very far away. “You took care of me last night, didn’t you?” she asked quietly.

She could see the trace hint of pinkness steal into his cheeks though she could only discern a portion of his profile. “Yeah, well . . . y-you were kind of a mess . . .”

She wanted to ask him why he’d put her in his bed. Surely it would have been just as easy to put her in the guest room. In the end, though, it was enough that he’d done all he had, and asking him questions that were only going to embarrass him . . . well, she just didn’t want to do that . . .

“Uh, Isabelle?”

Fiddling with the red and brown plaid cloth on the end table, she didn’t look up. “Hmm?”

“Your laptop . . . Was it at your place?”

“My laptop?” she echoed, unsure where he was going with this line of questioning.

“Yes.”

“Well, yeah . . . It was on my desk . . .”

He sighed, sinking down in his recliner with his cell phone in his hands. “Okay. Why don’t you go put your stuff up?”

“What stuff?”

He shrugged but didn’t look at her. “Your cousin brought some clothes and stuff over for you. It’s in the foyer.”

She nodded. “I think I’ll take a bath,” she mused, her voice dull.

“All right,” Griffin agreed, eyeing the cell phone in his hands as he waited for her to close the bathroom door. He supposed he could have made the call while she was still in the room, but he hadn’t wanted to. She’d been through enough, hadn’t she? No sense in worrying her until they had some concrete answers.

Fishing the business card out of his pocket, Griffin scowled at the phone, turning it from side to side until he located the card reader slot. Carefully feeding the bit of cardstock into the reader, he pressed the ‘scan’ button on the phone and waited for the soft beep before tugging the card loose and stuffing it back into his pocket once more.

It didn’t take him long to locate the number in the phone’s memory. It was just under Isabelle’s since hers had been the only one programmed in. He selected the number and hit ‘connect’, drumming his claws on the armrest as he waited impatiently for Bas Zelig to answer.

“Dr. Marin,” the younger youkai greeted. “How’s Bitty?”

“Bitty?” he intoned with a frown.

“Uh, Isabelle.”

“Oh . . . She’s okay. Taking a bath,” he replied, mildly disturbed by the friendliness he heard in Bas’ voice. “I asked her about the laptop. She said that it was on her desk.”

“Damn,” Bas said with a long sigh. “So that’s what they wanted.”

“Any ideas on who it was?” he asked, leaning forward and craning his neck to make sure that he wasn’t overheard.

“We think it was a youkai,” he replied. “It’s a little hard to say since the smell of the dog’s blood was so strong.”

“You can’t separate them?”

“Not that easily. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that the bastard hurt the dog and dragged him around just to cover his scent.”

That idea didn’t sit well with Griffin; not at all. “Did you read the journal translation?” he asked instead, tamping down the stone cold anger that surged through him at the very idea of such a blatant act of depravity.

Bas sighed. “Not yet. We wanted to get the investigation done here first. I want this place cleaned up before Bitty comes home.”

“She’s not going back there,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Bas.

“Either way, it’s a mess, and even if she just comes back to get her things . . .”

“Yeah.”

“Would it be all right if I called you if I have any questions about the research?”

“Uh, sure . . . yeah . . . Um . . .”

“I’ll call when he have more information,” Bas supplied, understanding what Griffin was trying to ask.

“Th-thanks.”

“Not a problem.”

Blinking as the connection cut off, Griffin lowered the device and clicked the ‘end call’ button. Her laptop . . . and Charlie . . .

Griffin sighed, shaking his head as he pushed himself out of the recliner.

He didn’t like the feel of the situation, not at all, but if this guy—this Fellowes or whoever he was—thought that he was going to get his hands on Isabelle . . .

Eyes darkening as his jaw cinched tight, Griffin stomped off toward the kitchen, willing himself to calm down before Isabelle realized just how precarious the situation really was. She had enough on her mind at the moment, and he’d be damned if he’d add to her concerns.

If he thought for even a moment that Griffin was just going to hand her or the research over to the likes of him then that bastard had another thing coming . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Jeremiah Willis rubbed his face and tapped his foot, glancing over his shoulder as he waited for someone to answer the door. He was exhausted. Having been awake for better than forty-eight hours was taking its toll on him. Still he was in fairly good spirits, all things considered. Unconsciously tightening his arms on the nondescript brown leather bag, he almost smiled—almost.

It was easier than he’d thought it would be. Finding Dr. Isabelle Izayoi had been simple enough. Thanks to a recent charge of malpractice, her name had been all over the local papers in Bangor. He’d read one article over coffee in a grimy little diner upon his arrival in Maine, and from that one article, he’d learned the name of the clinic where she worked and had been treated to a more recent picture of her, as well.

It couldn’t have been simpler. All he’d had to do was follow her when she left the clinic to find out where she lived. He’d watched her for almost a week, though, just to make sure that he had a better grasp on her schedule. Alastair told him that he wanted anything that looked like it could contain confidential data, and either the woman led a very boring life or she was far too trusting, overall, because the only things he’d found were her laptop computer and a small PDA tucked neatly into the right hand desk drawer. He’d looked for anything that resembled a diary or a journal, but he’d come up empty, and while he would have liked to have done a bit more thorough of a search, he’d been reasonably satisfied that he’d looked in the main places of the small home.

Oliver, the aged old youkai who served as Alastair’s butler, opened the door, peering down his hawkish nose at him. “Are you expected?” he asked without preamble, his high British accent lending an even drier quality to his tone.

“No, but I’m certain that his lordship will be most pleased to see me,” he replied tightly, despising the uppity butler in that moment.

Oliver stared at him for a long moment before stepping back to allow him to enter. “Wait here, please. I shall inform his lordship of your arrival.”

Narrowing his eyes on the flippant youkai, Willis said nothing, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other as he watched Oliver amble down the long corridor toward the office at the back of the aged manor house.

Telling, wasn’t it? He hadn’t even considered the idea of getting in some rest before heading here to deliver the pilfered goods to Alastair. It wasn’t wise to put off a man such as him; not if Jeremiah wanted to continue to breathe.

He sighed, running his fingers through his spiky orange hair. Just what did Alastair hope to find? he wondered. It wasn’t the first time that particular question had crossed his mind. To be completely honest, he’d wondered about it more often than not, and the question was enough to drive him to the brink of distraction. Of course, he was better off not knowing. Even he knew that much. No, whatever it was that Alastair Gregory was after, Jeremiah would be far better off if he just followed orders and didn’t think too much about anything else . . .

“My lord Gregory will see you now,” Oliver stated as he glided out of the room off to the left. He looked quite irritated, Jeremiah noticed. The butler absolutely hated any sort of infiltration into his perceived domain.

Offering a mocking bow, Jeremiah couldn’t quite suppress the tiny grin that surfaced on his features as he strode past Oliver.

His footsteps echoed off the cold stone floor like gunfire exploding in the distance. Ignoring the tremor of foreboding that surged over him, he cleared his throat quietly and paused long enough to garner his courage as he turned to face the closed door.   He could feel Alastair’s youki undulating from within. The youkai had perfected the art of intimidation long ago—well before Jeremiah had ever met him. Every single move he made was designed to instill fear, and even knowing that, it irritated him to no end that it still worked.

Knocking curtly, he stepped back, unconsciously tightening his grip on the leather satchel. With any luck at all, Alastair would be pleased with the spoils he’d brought back, and his part in whatever Alastair was plotting would be finished . . .

“Come,” Alastair’s voice called out. Jeremiah shook his head quickly. It was almost as though Alastair’s voice had come into his mind instead of being heard by his ears. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought as much, either. Forcing himself to reach for the handle, he slowly pushed the door open.

Standing in the shadows near the window, the youkai seemed to melt into the backdrop of curtains. “My lord,” he greeted, forcing his voice to be strong, steady.

Alastair didn’t even glance at him. “I trust you bring me good news.”

Striding across the office, he set the satchel on the desk and stepped back. “Her computer and her agenda,” he supplied.

A quiet rumble issued forth. It took a moment for Jeremiah to recognize the sound: laughter? “Good, good . . . you may go.”

Jeremiah made a low bow before he turned to leave, reining in the desire to run from the room. He couldn’t quite believe that he was finished with his task. In any case, he wasn’t about to hang about for Alastair to change his mind and send him on some other mission . . .

In fact, maybe a well-deserved vacation was in order . . . after all, what was that saying? ‘ _Ah, yes_ ,’ he thought as he stepped out of the house onto the impressive porch. ‘ _Out of sight, out of mind_ . . .’

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle let out a deep breath as she picked up the suitcase and headed through the house.

Griffin didn’t even glance up as she passed behind the sofa. Sitting in his recliner with the owner’s manual for his cell phone held open and his glasses perched on the end of his nose, he seemed to be quite absorbed in whatever he was doing, and Isabelle didn’t comment as she headed down the hallway in the direction of the bedrooms.

Stepping into the guest room where she’d stayed for so long, she stopped short and frowned. It looked exactly as it had the day she’d left, and yet there was something different about it, too—not so much a tangible difference, but it was there, nonetheless.

‘ _What . . . is it . . .?_ ’

Scowling at her surroundings, she bit her lip and shook her head.

‘ _You know what it is, Bitty_ ,’ her youkai spoke up gently.

‘ _No, I don’t_ . . .’

‘ _You do. You know that if you stay in here—in this room—you’re allowing him to go back to the way things were—the way things were before you slept together. Is that really what you want?_ ’

‘ _Going back_ . . .’ she trailed off. Was that what it was? Was that the feeling she couldn’t quite put her finger on? It was true, wasn’t it? If she acquiesced—if she put herself in this room after he’d let her sleep in his bed—it would be akin to giving up, wouldn’t it?

Unconscious of the stubborn expression that surfaced on her features, Isabelle turned on her heel and strode purposefully out of the room. If he thought that she’d just roll over and let things be, he was sadly mistaken, wasn’t he? Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t. That she’d called him without even bothering to consider calling anyone else was telling, and he . . . he’d come to her aid, hadn’t he? That had to mean something; she knew it did. Easier to dissect the insanity of the night before, wasn’t it? In the bright light of day, she remembered with vivid clarity the absolute fear in his expression as he’d checked her over, demanding to know if she’d been injured or not. It wasn’t an expression of a man who was only casually concerned at all. No, it was the look of a man who was frightened half out of his wits that she’d come to harm . . .

And though the memories of his quiet if not gruffly tender care of her were a little hazy, she could recall the words he’d said to her as she’d finally drifted off to sleep—a thick sleep devoid of dreams; a leaden sleep that could only be achieved through the use of medicine . . . He’d told her in a husky tone that he was sorry; so very sorry; that he should have realized . . . At the time, she’d wondered in a vague sort of what, exactly what he should have realized. She hadn’t been able to think about it too deeply as she lay there caught in the transient state between awake and asleep. Had he actually held her so close to him—close enough that she’d felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under her cheek? Had he really lulled her to sleep by the stroke of his hand on her hair?

A trace smile lit on her lips as she recalled the warmth of his lips on her forehead. Though as sketchy as the rest of her memories from the night, she knew—just knew—that it was a memory that she could trust.

Heaving an industrious sigh, she hefted the suitcase onto the stout trunk at the foot of Griffin’s bed, pausing long enough to smile indulgently as she shook her head. The bed was as big as the man, himself. Of course, she’d be surprised if he had tried to squeeze his six-and-a-half foot frame onto a humble standard sized bed.

Pressing the pads of her thumbs against the identi-locks, she waited for the soft beep to let her know that they’d been released before lifting the lid of the suitcase. She couldn’t help but giggle at her cousin’s unorthodox way of packing. She supposed that the tightly rolled garments were a concerted effort to fit more things into the suitcase. The man was far too good at that sort of thing, especially since he tended to travel a great deal in his line of work. Bastian’s primary function in the youkai special crimes division was gathering intelligence, which often meant that he and his mate were gone on reconnaissance missions. In fact, the only things that Bastian hadn’t rolled were her panties and bras, and those were rather haphazardly thrown in. She had a feeling that her poor cousin was more than a little unhappy about being asked to pack her things for her.

“All right,” Griffin grumbled, stomping into the bedroom with a scowl on his face and the cell phone in his hand. “I give up. How do I change the godforsaken song you programmed into this stupid thing?”

“I’ll show you later,” she remarked absently, picking up a handful of panties and turning a thoughtful eye on the dresser. “Which drawer is mine?”

His head jerked up, his gaze darkening as a hint of disbelief surfaced on his features. “Which . . . what?” he demanded incredulously.

“Which drawer? Actually, I might need a couple, if that’s all right,” she went on. “A girl can never have too much drawer space.”

“You have a perfectly good dresser with lots of empty drawers in the guest room,” he growled, cheeks pinking as he shook his head at her.

She spared him a momentary glance before stepping closer to the dresser. “Now why would I put my things in there when I’m going to be staying in here?”

“But you’re not—” he began.

“Oh, but I am,” she argued lightly.

“And just what makes you think that I’ll let you?” he countered, crossing his arms over his chest in a decidedly stubborn stance.

“Because you brought me here,” she reminded him.

“Only because you were leaking.”

“And you said you were glad that I called you,” she reminded him sweetly.

He snorted. “Not _that_ glad, damn it.”

“Don’t be so stubborn,” she insisted. “I haven’t slept decently in weeks, and it’s all your fault. The least you can do is humor me.”

“Humor you?” he echoed, narrowing his eyes and pinning her with a mulish expression. “Why on earth would I do that?”

Pulling the top drawer on the right hand side open, Isabelle moved his neatly arranged socks aside and dropped her panties into the empty spot. “Because I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer; that’s why,” she quipped, closing the drawer and brushing off her hands, ignoring the wheezing intonation of Griffin’s breathing. “You said it, yourself. You don’t mind having me here, and I’m tired of playing this game. You’re my mate. You know it, and I know it, and I’m not going _anywhere_ anymore, no matter how much grumping you try to do.”

Blinking in dulled surprise at the uncharacteristic brusqueness in her tone, Griffin opened his mouth to argue with her only to snap it closed on whatever retort he’d been trying to form. Skin darkening precariously, he shook his head at her and stomped over to the dresser, jerking open the drawer where she’d just put her things as he dropped the cell phone onto the dresser with a dull clatter before scooping out his socks and yanking open the next drawer over. Mumbling under his breath about pushy women and some things that ought to never touch, he shoved his socks in with his plain white tee-shirts and shoved the drawer closed once more. “You’re not making my bedroom all girly,” he growled, shaking his head furiously as his already ruddy cheeks colored just a little more.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she assured him. “Don’t suppose you could spare a second drawer?”

“Don’t suppose I could,” he grumbled, pulling open another drawer and lifting a stack of carefully folded pants out of it with a pointed sigh. “You’re a pain in the ass; did you know?”

“Maybe,” she allowed almost grudgingly, scooping the rest of the contents of her suitcase out and shoving it all into the newly emptied drawer.

“Definitely a pain,” he insisted, eyeing the haphazardly filled drawer with something akin to acute disgust. He thought better of complaining about it, though, and simply watched as she smashed things down in order to close the drawer.

“Well, _this_ pain is tired,” she said, unable to hide the hint of petulance in her voice. “Will you take a nap with me?”

He didn’t look like he was going to comply. In fact, he looked like he was considering opening the drawer and arranging her things. He glanced at her, though, then heaved another sigh before snapping her suitcase closed and stowing it away in the closet. “Fine,” he mumbled in a completely guarded tone, “but only if you promise you’ll stay on your side of the bed.”

Only then did she smile and nod. “Okay,” she said, figuring that it was all right to concede on the issue as she padded over to the side of the bed where she’d slept the night before. Griffin watched her for a moment before reluctantly rounding the other side and slowly stretched out beside her. As much as she wanted to move in closer, she didn’t, but she could feel her wan smile widening.

She was making progress, wasn’t she? To be completely honest, she had to admit that she hadn’t actually expected him to give in so quickly. He was Griffin, after all, and she knew damn well that he had a tendency to be stubborn just for the sake of the act. Still, it was encouraging, and she supposed that she could give him the battle as long as she won the war.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
>  _She moved … in …?_


	52. Disquiet

Isabelle sat on the floor, scowling at the weakened dog that whimpered softly as she carefully cleaned around the drainage tube. She hated to do it, but she also knew that it had to be taken care of, and while she was eternally grateful to Dr. Brandon, she couldn’t help the upset that was never very far away whenever she had to tend Charlie’s wounds. “When did I give him the last dose of meds?” she asked over her shoulder without turning to look at Griffin.

Uttering an indelicate snort, Griffin didn’t even pause as he wrote in the notebook. “About an hour ago,” he stated evenly. “He won’t need more for a while.”

His answer didn’t pacify her at all. “But Dr. Brandon said—”

“You’re going to overdose him if you keep it up,” Griffin interrupted with a frustrated sigh. “You’re doing all you can do. Let him in peace, and he’ll heal up faster.”

That earned him a petulant little scowl as she uttered a soft ‘hrumph’ and turned back to stroke Charlie’s knobby head again. The dog whined softly though he did manage to wag his tail—a far sight better than what he’d been able to do since they’d brought him home, in Griffin’s estimation.

“He _will_ be all right, won’t he?” she asked for what had to be the millionth time.

Griffin sighed, dropping his pen onto the tablet and giving up on his efforts to finish the translation since Isabelle simply wouldn’t leave him alone. He figured that it was fine, too. She’d barely gotten any sleep last night, hopping up every time she heard the slightest sound to check on the dog.   In the end, Griffin had carried Charlie into the bedroom in an effort to alleviate her fears and to allow her to get some rest, and he hadn’t even complained when she’d taken his pillow to make a bed for the animal to lie on. She’s told him that Charlie would be comforted by Griffin’s scent, and while he highly doubted that, he hadn’t really argued with her, either. She hadn’t agreed to lie down until he had assured her for what had to be the fiftieth time that he’d sit up with the animal to make sure that everything was all right, and only then did she manage to get a few fitful hours of much needed rest.

To be honest, he still wasn’t sure exactly _what_ to make of the idea that she’d all but taken over his bedroom. He supposed that the next step in the evolution would be for him to come home only to find pastel floral printed sheets on his bed . . .

‘ _Oh, get a grip, Griffin. It’s not that bad. After all, she’s warm and nice, and . . . and she feels good, too_.’

Snorting at his own irritating thoughts, Griffin couldn’t help the heat that infused his cheeks at the implied intimacy, and maybe it was his own discomfort that prompted him to shake his head stubbornly. ‘ _Yeah, sure_ ,’ he allowed almost grudgingly. ‘ _Damn fool woman_ . . .’

So he had told himself that he could let her stay in his room until the dog was recovered. After that, he’d explain to her that she ought to be in the guest room. After all, there were just too many things that she really didn’t understand, and Griffin . . . well, he wasn’t exactly sure that he wanted to explain it all to her, in the first place . . .

A slight bit of pressure rubbed against his leg, and he leaned back far enough, sighing heavily in abject resignation, and it didn’t help to remind himself that it was entirely his own fault, either. When he’d called to ask that someone bring some of Isabelle’s things by, he’d also remembered to ask that they find and bring the idiotic cat, too, and she was pleased beyond belief to be home, or so it would seem. Mewing up at him with her eyes wide and glowing, she only blinked lazily when he narrowed his gaze on her, and Griffin sighed and shook his head. It figured. Between animals and Isabelle, his life was slowly but surely going to the dogs, as it were . . .

“Do you think he looks comfortable enough?” she asked anxiously.

Griffin frowned at the dog and grunted. “Looks just fine,” he mumbled.

“Maybe I should get my pillow for him . . .”

“Forget it, Isabelle. All _your_ pillows are actually _my_ pillows, and he doesn’t need them. Besides, you already gave him one of mine last night.”

She shot him a reproachful glance but said nothing more, turning her attention back on her pet for the moment. “Do you think he’s hungry?” she asked at length.

Griffin sighed. “Why don’t you ask him? You can understand him, can’t you?”

She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Of course I can normally, but he’s not feeling very well, and his voice is a bit more muffled than usual.”

“Leave him alone or I’ll take him back to the vet’s office so he can recover in peace and quiet,” Griffin warned.

Isabelle’s face contorted in a marked pout. “He needs to be here where I can take care of him,” she insisted.

“He needs to have some room to breathe,” Griffin insisted. “Anyway, I need you to look over some of these translations.”

She heaved a sigh designed to let him know exactly what she thought of his advice but pushed herself to her feet before stomping across the floor to snatch the notebook out of his outstretched hands. She could appreciate his advice, she supposed, even though she wasn’t nearly as inclined to agree. Froofie had been through a horrible ordeal, and he needed to know that she was there for him.

With a sigh, she forced herself to sit down with the translations, reading over the notes written in Griffin’s strong script. Her mind wasn’t in it, though, and the words could have been in their untranslated format for all the good it did her to read through them.

“Isabelle,” he said, his tone tentative, almost reluctant. She didn’t look up from the notes, however, as she wondered if she ought to offer her dog something to eat anyway.

“Hmm?”

“When you first brought your computer over here with the research scans on it, did you ever delete that file?” he asked.

Leaning to the side to snare her glasses off the coffee table, she frowned at Griffin’s notes regarding the translation of one line in the text. “The file? No, but it’s password protected. Why?”

Griffin didn’t answer right away, as though he were considering what she’d told him. “How strong of a password did you use?”

Blinking as she dragged her attention off the research notes and her dog, she let the book fall into her lap as she pushed her glasses up with the back of her hand. “I used the password I always use,” she told him rather uncertainly. “No one’s ever been able to crack it, if that’s what you mean. I used to have one of those electronic diaries, and my sister used to try to sneak into it all the time, so if she couldn’t figure out what password I’d used, then I doubt anyone else would be able to, either. Besides,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “I used the new _Intelliface_ program—you know: the one that deletes the file automatically after five failed attempts at giving the password.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t really delete the file, does it?”

“Of course it does. _Intelliface_ works with the drive sweeper program, so once a file’s been deleted, it’s completely wiped from the system.”

Griffin frowned. She seemed positive enough, and certainly he’d heard about the new features on the _Intelliface_ program, but it seemed too simple, didn’t it?

Scooping up the cat and rubbing her behind the ears, he slowly shook his head. The little beast had been hiding under Isabelle’s bed, or so Bas Zelig had claimed. He’d also commented that the cat wouldn’t come out until he’d taken his wife back to the office since the cat-youkai he’d married couldn’t seem to stop hissing at the animal.

‘ _What a strange family_ ,’ he thought with an inward snort. ‘ _Almost makes Isabelle seem normal_ . . . almost . . .’

Still, he couldn’t help but worry about the missing laptop computer. Though he believed Isabelle when she said that her password was strong enough, he knew damn well that there were ways around that password if they had a mind to get there. After all, it wasn’t that difficult to find software that could break through those sorts of protections. He could only hope that, in worst-case scenario, the last and greatest defense of all was the work, itself, that had taken him months to decipher . . . There were only a handful of people that he knew of worldwide that had as much knowledge on the ancient Indian dialects, and as far as he knew, none of them were quite as well-versed in them as he was, which made sense. He lived with those same people for more years than he could put a number on. It would take all of those men combined to be able to translate the research, and it would likely take them years to do so since they wouldn’t be able to analyze the text on a whole in order to find the best translation . . .

The real problem, as far as Griffin could tell, was the idea that whoever had stolen the laptop and attacked the dog would figure out that Isabelle had help on the project. That would bring them sniffing around his door, and while he didn’t rightfully care if they did or didn’t come, he would walk through a river of fire before he’d ever willingly hand over the woman . . .

The dog let out a deep sigh, drawing Isabelle’s attention immediately. The woman stood up, dropping the notes on the coffee table as she hurried over to check on her pet. “How long has it been since his last dose?” she asked rather distractedly.

Griffin sighed and shook his head. “About fifteen minutes since the last time you asked,” he grumbled. “Let him rest, will you?”

She shot him a wounded sort of glance. “He says he hurts,” she explained in a small voice.

Griffin relented, pushing the cat off his lap as he slowly stood up to shuffle over to Isabelle. “Of course he hurts,” he told her, hunkering down beside her and staring thoughtfully at the dog in question. “He’s getting better. It’ll just take a little longer.”

“I know,” she muttered, her tone giving away her absolute disgust at what she perceived to be her inability to do a thing to help Charlie’s recovery. “Why would someone do this?” she asked in a whisper, her voice thick with her confusion. “He’s just a dog—he’d never hurt anyone . . .”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Sometimes things happen that just don’t make sense, and no matter how long you try to do that, you never will. I told you that already, didn’t I?”

She didn’t answer right away as she idly stroked the dog’s knobby head, and when he smelled the salt of her tears, he grimaced. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice curiously strong despite the misery that seemed to radiate from her.

He couldn’t control the blush that heated his cheeks—something about her tone of voice, he supposed . . . He grunted and pushed himself to his feet once more, heading off toward the kitchen to make them some tea. “Don’t thank me, Isabelle,’ he called over his shoulder. “Just buy me a new pillow. I don’t think I want that one back.”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Gunnar flopped back and heaved a sigh, rubbing his hands over his face in a gesture of complete exasperation before shifting his scowl to the digital photos spread over his desktop. They’d spent hours meticulously photographing and cataloging everything as they’d searched through the carnage left behind in Isabelle’s home, and between the stench of the dog’s blood that seemed to be everywhere and the reek of the spilled cleaning solutions amongst other things left behind in the bathroom and kitchen, he was still nursing a headache from it all. One thing was clear to him, though: whoever had perpetrated the crime had known damn well about their senses. He _had_ to. As far as Gunnar could tell, he’d gone well out of his way to mask his scent, and damned if he hadn’t succeeded in spades. Besides, it didn’t take a brilliant mind to realize that the target of the break-in had to be the research. The only thing that was missing, as far as he knew, was Isabelle’s laptop, and the woman had things in that place that a regular thief would have grabbed well before a computer, in his estimation. Isabelle didn’t try to hide her jewelry box. It was sitting on her dresser, and while the contents looked like they’d been upset, nothing appeared to be missing from it, either.

In the filing cabinet beside her desk she kept all of her important documents: banking information, car title, credit card hardcopies, and the like. No, if someone had wanted to rob her, it would have been quite simple to do, and yet the only thing missing was the computer.

The intruder was obviously after the research, and if he knew about the research, then it stood to reason that he was youkai, as well—or working for a youkai in any case, and as much as Gunnar hated to agree with Griffin Marin on anything, at least the bear-youkai had realized it right off, too, which alleviated a degree of his foremost concern. Still, even if Marin knew it, did he really possess the wherewithal to protect Isabelle should it come to that? He’d told Cain that he’d protect her, and Cain was willing to accept that, but Gunnar . . .

He sighed, idly picking up a picture and turning it over in his fingertips. He’d heard Ben’s explanations of Marin’s involvement on the night that Cain’s mother was murdered, and he accepted that Marin wasn’t quite the bad guy that he’d originally suspected—at least on that count—but he also knew damn well that the youkai’s body was not in the best of condition. He’d seen concrete proof of that, himself, the one time he’d come face to face with Marin. He’d seen enough of the scarring that traversed Griffin’s face to know that the likelihood that it only appeared there was slim to none, and he had to wonder how much mobility the youkai really possessed, and even if his mind were willing, the real question was, was his body able to back up the promise?

And something else Ben had said still troubled him. Letting the picture fall from his fingers, he reached into his pocket for a cigarette—John Player black—and took his time lighting it with the matte black Zippo that Sydnie had gifted him with last Christmas.

Ben had alluded to Griffin’s scars—in fact, it was something that he remembered from the night Cain’s mother died: the bear-youkai with the scars—that’s what he’d said, and while Gunnar might believe that some of his scarring had come from Sebastian Cavendish’s mindless assault, not all of them had.

Which meant that there was more—much more—to Griffin’s story than what met the eye, and if that was the case, Gunnar still had to wonder exactly what the man really was hiding. Myrna had rolled her eyes and asserted her belief that Gunnar simply hated to be wrong, and while he had to allow that there was a part of him that didn’t like that, he also couldn’t help but feel that there was more to it, and that the ‘more to it’ might be worse than the circumstances of that fateful night. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t something that Gunnar was going to ignore. His gut instinct told him that he needed to dig just a little deeper, and while he could believe that Marin didn’t really pose a threat now, he wouldn’t be satisfied until he knew for certain that Marin was good enough for Isabelle, damn it.

One thing was certain. In all the years of his life, he’d learned not to ignore that feeling. More often than not, it was right on the money, and Gunnar knew—just knew—that this time was no different. Marin’s secrets needed to be uncovered, especially when Isabelle’s life might well depend upon it . . .

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

Isabelle heaved a sigh and popped an eye open to see whether or not Griffin was sleeping. She thought he might be. His breathing was even, steady, but she’d thought that a half an hour ago—the last time she’d tried to sneak out of bed to check on Froofie. He’d uttered a terse grunt and sat up quicker than she had thought was fair only to catch her hand and pull her back not roughly, exactly, but in such a way that left little room for debate on the subject, either. “ _Leave him be,” he’d said despite Isabelle’s whining protests. “If you don’t, I’ll take him back to Dr. Brandon’s office—see if I don’t_.”

“If you do it, I’ll lock you up in the other bedroom,” Griffin remarked, his voice startling in the quiet. The blasted man hadn’t even opened his eyes.

“I was just going to get a glass of water,” she insisted, her tone haughty despite the burn in her cheeks as she smashed her face into her pillow.

Griffin’s snort was loud and pronounced. “Might put you back in there, anyway,” he grumbled, rolling onto his side and slipping an arm around her waist. “God only knows I’m not getting any sleep with you in here.”

Swallowing hard as the flush in her cheeks darkened but for entirely different reasons, she felt her body meld against his chest despite the trace irritation that lingered. “You could distract me,” she suggested, partially to get even with him for his perceived callousness, half because she wished he would.

It took him a moment to get the gist of her ribbing, and when he did, he choked just a little. “Jezebel,” he accused, tightening his arm around her in a mock effort to squeeze the air out of her, she supposed.

“Well, you _are_ holding me,” she pointed out.

He snorted again. “No, I’m making sure you don’t try to bolt the second I go to sleep,” he corrected. “Now shut up, will you? You can check on Charlie in the morning.”

“You’re being unnecessarily mean, you know,” she pointed out.

She might as well have saved her breath. “Damn straight, I am,” he agreed.

Heaving another sigh meant to let him know that she thought he was being entirely unreasonable, she couldn’t help but to snuggle just a little closer to him. Whether he realized it or not, he was comforting her by his very proximity—something she desperately needed. He was acting just like her mate, come to think of it, and that thought was enough to make her smile. Wan and thin, but a smile all the same, she grudgingly gave up on the idea of checking on the dog lying in the corner of the room.

Something was bothering him, wasn’t it? She’d realized that earlier, but hadn’t been clear-headed enough to try to figure out why. She was a terrible person, wasn’t she? Always lost in her own thoughts and in concerns that she stubbornly kept to herself, she constantly insisted that it was because she didn’t want to burden others, but she knew the truth. She hated the idea that anyone might think that she couldn’t take care of herself, didn’t she? Still when she’d gotten home only to find her front door standing wide open, smelling the agonizing scent of her precious baby’s blood, her mind had done the instinctive thing as she’d given in to the overwhelming panic. She hadn’t actually realized that she’d even called Griffin until he was standing in her living room. He was the one person she was willing to lean on, wasn’t he? The one person who could lend her a semblance of strength when hers faltered that she wouldn’t feel insecure about later . . .

There was something different about him since that night, too. At first she’d tried to tell herself that she was imagining things; that it was all in her head. But that wasn’t the case, was it? Griffin was still the same gruff man she’d come to adore, and yet there was something just below that, too; a certain tenderness in his treatment of her, as though he wanted to protect her . . . and maybe, just maybe, that protection had started centuries ago, long before she was ever born, but . . .

“Griffin?” she said, careful to keep her voice down lest he was sleeping already.

“I think I have some rope around here somewhere,” he commented dryly.

She smiled in the darkness. “I never got to thank you, did I? For what you did for my grandpa.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he remarked. She figured he’d downplay it all.

“You did,” she insisted. “You saved him. Ben said—”

“I’m not a hero, Isabelle,” he interrupted, his tone all the more forceful for its quietness. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that I was.”

“If not you then who?” she challenged. “If you hadn’t been there . . .”

Flopping over onto his back, he draped his forearm over his eyes with a heavy sigh. “Don’t you understand?” he asked suddenly, his voice rising sharply. “It had nothing to do with saving anyone. I was . . . was _scared_. That’s why I did it. Fear.”

Leaning on her elbow, she regarded him in the stingy moonlight filtering through the crack between the heavy drapes and the window. In the thin stream of light, she could barely discern his profile, but she didn’t need to see to feel the thickness of his youki constricting around him, closing her out, pushing her away. “What were you afraid of?” she asked in a whisper.

He sat up suddenly, swinging his legs off the bed and burying his face in his hands as he rested his elbows on his knees. Hunched forward, he seemed infinitely tired, unaccountably sad. “Nothing . . . everything . . .”

She didn’t know what to say to that. She’d felt that way, hadn’t she? The night she’d come home only to find Froofie . . . she knew that feeling, and she despised it. Pushing herself up, she leaned against his back, slipped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek on the soft flannel shirt he wore. “You were afraid of being caught up in something that you couldn’t control,” she concluded softly, her voice muffled slightly by his shirt.

He shook his head and sighed again—more of a movement than a sound. “No, that . . . that wasn’t it,” he admitted. “I just . . . I didn’t want to watch another child die . . . I couldn’t . . .” Shaking his head, he let his hands fall to dangle between his parted knees. “He was just a terrified little cub, but I think . . . I think I was more afraid than he was—afraid of seeing more blood because it never . . . ever washes away . . .”

“You were thinking about your sister,” she said gently.

He seemed startled by her statement, his body stiffening against the shock, and for a moment, she thought she’d overstepped herself, that he was going to pull away from her. He didn’t, but he didn’t relax, either. “No. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“It’s okay, you know,” she ventured, tightening her arms around him. “It’s all right to let yourself feel good about what you did that night. Even if it wasn’t your intention, you still saved my grandfather, and you didn’t have to. You’re a good man—a _decent_ man—and if anyone has the right to hold their head high and be proud of who they are, it’s you.”

“No, I don’t,” he muttered, carefully pushing her away as he got to his feet and slowly, stiffly shuffled toward the doorway. “Don’t go looking to canonize me, Isabelle. The damned are the ones left to go on living.”

She watched him go with a frown on her face, struggling to understand the words that he hadn’t said. Somewhere in his mind, he still believed that he didn’t deserve her—no, that wasn’t quite right. He believed, didn’t he, that he didn’t deserve any measure of real happiness. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she let her chin fall onto her raised knees. Despite what he might believe, she knew— _knew_ —that he wanted that happiness, that peace. She could sense it in her heart. It was more of a feeling than something she could put her finger on; more of an instinct, she supposed . . .

‘ _So you need to make him realize that he wants to be happy, right?_ ’ her youkai piped up.

Isabelle blinked and lifted her chin, her expression turning thoughtful. ‘ _But how do I do that?_ ’

‘ _Oh, it’s not that tough, is it? In fact, you’re well on your way to showing him that, don’t you think?_ ’

The stuttering warmth of determination ebbed through her, and she bit her lip. Her youkai was right, damn it. Griffin might be stubborn and might not want to admit what it was that he wanted, but she was, too, and this fight . . .

It wasn’t one that she was willing to lose.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _All right, Dr. G … It’s on_ …


	53. Bitterness

He heard her follow him into the living room, and he sighed inwardly, feeling the same sort of resignation that came with the sense of inevitability that he’d felt when he’d opened the door only to find Cain Zelig standing there. He supposed he’d always known that it would come down to this, too, and that was . . . all right, wasn’t it?

He knew it now. He’d somehow managed to delude himself into believing on some level that maybe—just maybe . . . But he’d known all along, hadn’t he? And while he wasn’t entirely certain what he’d do come morning when she knew it all and figured out what he’d known from the start—that he really was a monster; that the things he’d done were beyond the scope of forgiveness . . . Well, he’d figure out something when that time came, wouldn’t he?

It was how he’d survived for all those years, wasn’t it? Lingering on when everyone else was gone; when he knew that he should have been the one to die, and yet he _had_ hoped, hadn’t he? Somewhere deep down, he’d wanted to believe that Isabelle could change it—could change _him_.

Staring out the window at the late winter snow falling softly from the murky skies—the filmy sort of blackness that seemed to cling to everything it touched—he almost smiled in a sad sort of way. He’d _wanted_ to be her hero, hadn’t he? That was the real reason he’d rushed to her side. He’d wanted her to hug him and hold him and think that everything was all right when that never had been Griffin’s gift. No, the only thing he’d ever done was hurt those that he professed to care about, only this time was so much worse, wasn’t it? This time, it was Isabelle . . .

“I get the feeling that there’s something you aren’t telling me,” she said as she padded across the floor and slipped her arms around his waist. “You can tell me things, you know. I might not be able to fix anything for you, but I can listen.”

He drew a deep breath, wincing at the feel of her arms around him, cursing himself for the part of him that felt as though he’d die if she let go; if he had to watch her walk away . . . “You should be sleeping, shouldn’t you?” he mumbled, wanting to distance himself from her but unable to accomplish the deed, himself.

“If you’ll come back and lie down with me.”

“Stop it,” he growled, unable to repress the irrational surge of anger that rose inside him though he wasn’t quite sure why it was so. It might have been the rage that he felt whenever he thought about those things that he couldn’t change, no matter how much he wished it were otherwise. It might have been exacerbated by the unrelenting knowledge that no manner of explanation could possibly make the things he’d done seem all right. Even still, there was the underlying hope when he knew damn well that she could never, ever understand. How could she, raised as she’d been, the apple of her daddy’s eye, coddled and cosseted and protected from the ugliness that Griffin had seen far too many times? That was how it was supposed to be—he didn’t _want_ it any other way—and yet that same upbringing was the reason that he knew that she would never be able to comprehend a thing. “This was a mistake,” he muttered, pushing her hands aside and stepping away from her. “I never . . . I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

“Don’t do it again, Griffin,” she reprimanded sharply. “Don’t you _dare_ . . . and don’t you even _think_ that you’re getting rid of me this time, because you’re not. I won’t let you.”

Stomping over to toss more wood onto the already blazing fire, Griffin dug his claws into a healthy chunk, gritting his teeth against the impotent rage that surged in him in light of the realization that the damned woman never did know when to leave well enough alone. “Don’t be stupid!” he growled. “You don’t—”

“—Belong here; is that what you were going to say?” she cut in, her voice taking on that ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ tone that he’d only heard from her a couple of times. “Well, let me tell you something, Dr. Marin: if I don’t belong here, then there’s nowhere on this earth that I _do_ belong, because you’re my mate, and the last time I checked, mates _belong_ together!”

Tossing the wood into the fire as he shot to his feet, he scowled at her for a long moment before turning on his heel and stomping toward the door.

She didn’t wait for him to get there, though, dashing after him and grabbing his arm before he could make it out of the living room. “Don’t you leave me, Griffin Marin,” she exclaimed, tugging him back. “I’ve let you close yourself off and keep things to yourself because I thought that you’d tell me eventually, but you won’t, will you? Why?”

“Damn it, Isabelle, it isn’t that simple!” he gnashed out, jerking his arm out of her grasp. “Nothing ever is! You want everything to be perfect, but it isn’t! You want _me_ to be perfect, and I’m not!”

“This has nothing to do with being perfect,” she said, shaking her head as her chin took on a stubborn set. “You want to be with me, and I—”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he bit out coldly, his eyes slipping away from hers, unable to stomach the hurt in her eyes that belied her righteous indignation.

“Oh, I think I do!”

“Yeah? And what is it that you know?”

“I know I love you, you stupid man!”

“You don’t love me,” he shot back, his anger too thick to let the words penetrate his brain. “You _think_ you do, maybe, but you don’t! How could you _possibly_ love a—?” Biting off his sentence, he turned away suddenly, dangerously close to losing the temerarious grip he had on his emotions.

“A what?” she demanded, her tone thin, pinched.

“Leave it alone,” he muttered, shaking his head, snatching the empty tea mug off his desk in a vain effort to distract himself.

“I won’t.”

“Damn it . . .”

“Stop trying to protect me from whatever it is you’re thinking! Tell me, Griffin!” she demanded.

“You won’t understand,” he growled, shaking her hands off yet again as she reached out to stop him once more.

“What? That you think you’re a monster when you’re not?”

“Isabelle . . .” he began in a warning tone.

She wasn’t finished. “That you believe that you’re a horrible man when you’re not?”

“Just—”

“That you couldn’t save my grandmother so that makes you unworthy of redemption?”

“ _I’m a murderer!_ ” he bellowed, hurling the cup across the room as his temper boiled over. The fragile piece exploded when it impacted with the wall sending shards and dust flying, raining down in a pitiful heap on the meticulously clean wood floor. Something about the sight of the bits left behind shocked him, drew him out of his rage as quickly as it had manifested itself, leaving him feeling curiously numb as he stared at the remnants littering the floor. “I’m . . . I’m a murderer,” he said again, his voice barely above a whisper.

He couldn’t look her in the eye. He tried, but he just couldn’t. Realizing a moment too late that seeing the revulsion in her gaze would be enough to kill him, he opted to take the coward’s way out—opted to scowl at the floor as he willed her to say something— _anything_ —anything at all to end the endless torment of his own mind.

“You’re about as much of a murderer as I am,” she replied in an equally soft voice. Somewhere along the way, her anger had abated, too, and she sounded infinitely weary, almost resigned. “Just because you couldn’t save my grandmother doesn’t mean that you’re responsible for what happened to her.”

He shook his head, still unable to meet her gaze, horrified at the slow realization that what he’d see wasn’t the disdain that he’d considered but was probably more akin to understanding, or worse: pity. “This isn’t about your grandmother, Isabelle,” he heard himself saying in a quiet and almost bitter tone that sounded oddly unlike himself. “I killed them all . . . men, women, children . . . all of them, and . . .” Closing his eyes, he swallowed hard, letting his head fall back as he willed away the bile that rose to choke him. “. . . And I was _glad_ . . . I was glad . . .”

He didn’t hear her cross the floor to stand before him, didn’t sense her proximity until he felt her hands on his cheeks, gently pulling his face down as he squeezed his eyes closed a little tighter. “Who?”

“They killed her . . . _them_ . . . all of them— _all of them_ , and they . . . they laughed like it was . . . some great feat, you know? Kumiko . . . she wanted Hahaue, and . . . she just . . . cried . . .”

Isabelle uttered a half-hearted sound, a sickened half-sob, half-moan, but she didn’t let go, and Griffin couldn’t shake the pain that roiled over him in wave after wave of vicious memory.

“They’d come to us and said that there was trouble in the village. We’d moved there. Chichiue had met these people—Miroku and Sango—and they had said that humans saw that we wanted to help . . . protect them . . . That we’d be all right, and Chichiue . . . He believed them. But when he got there, they said . . . They said they couldn’t have a youkai so close to their . . . their children, let alone a family of youkai. Some monk from another village had put up purifying barriers. Chichiue couldn’t reach Hahaue . . . couldn’t stop them as they poked her and tormented her . . . They’d put Ofuda on us, and we couldn’t move, but . . . but . . .”

“You couldn’t save them . . . your family,” she concluded softly. She didn’t want to hear the details, or maybe she didn’t want him to have to put what he remembered into words, and he realized in a disjointed sort of way that as often as he’d relived it in his mind, he’d never, ever talked about it; not to anyone.

Sinking down on the sofa as though his legs simply wouldn’t support him any longer, he buried his face in his hands, all too aware of the tremor in every part of his body that he just couldn’t stop. “I was tied to a post, and they stabbed at me whenever I tried to close my eyes . . . Their blades had been blessed, they said—sacred blades made expressly for . . . for killing youkai. They cut me over and over . . . and I watched as they killed my . . . They killed Hahaue. They cut off her hair—her beautiful hair . . . all golden, like . . . like . . . sunshine . . . and they gave it to the children to play with . . . and they . . . killed . . . her.” Swallowing hard, he shook his head, selfishly let himself draw comfort from the touch of Isabelle’s hand on his arm, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he could discern the scent of her tears. “Chichiue . . . He flew into a rage trying to get to her—to my mother. They shot him twenty times or more . . . They laughed, you know? _Laughed_ , and . . . and all the while, my sister cried . . .”

“Don’t say any more,” Isabelle pleaded softly, her voice thick with emotion, with tears. “I’m so sorry . . . so sorry . . .”

He shook his head again, somehow needing to hear himself say the rest of it. Drawing a shaky breath, he let his hands drop away from his face, staring at the familiarity around him with eyes that saw nothing but a thick haze of smoke, a sky as red as blood, and flames that obscured a river of blood . . . “They . . . c-cut . . . Kumiko open . . . while she screamed . . . cut her from the neck down . . . laughing as they watched her struggle to breathe. One of them . . . wanted her heart, and I . . . I remember thinking that they should let her die. She kept . . . calling me—begging me—pleading for me to save her, and I . . . I couldn’t reach her. My . . . My sister . . .”

“Kami . . .”

Swallowing the thickness that threatened to choke him, he cleared his throat, wanting to stop yet unable to do so, as though he had to get it out, and maybe he did . . . Maybe he did . . . “I don’t remember how I got free. I was . . . bleeding and weakened, but I managed to yank off the Ofuda after I got my arms freed. I . . . pushed through the barrier . . . I don’t remember at the time, but I think maybe the barrier sort of . . . cauterized my wounds . . . But I tried to get to her—to save her . . . I was too late . . . I must have lost my mind then. I can vaguely recall the bodies of the villagers, and I know I killed them all—every last one of them. Sometimes . . .” trailing off, he winced at the myriad of images from a thousand dreams ran through his head, dissipating before he could latch onto any of them as they spun together to culminate in a wail, a sob, a cry that was silenced so very long ago. “I . . . murdered them without a second thought . . . and then . . . I took Kumiko’s body—my sister who died without honor—and I . . . I . . . ran . . .” Griffin sighed, unable to shake off the pure shame that rose in him—shame that even now, after so very many years, that he could still feel trace amounts of . . . grim satisfaction at his actions—and the complete mortification that he could possibly be as callous as that.

“Griffin . . .”

Shaking his head, he swallowed once, twice, still unable to reconcile himself to the burn of emotion that had been rendered dormant only to rear itself all over again. “I buried her under the sakura tree she loved. I thought it would make her happy if she could . . . could lie beneath it . . .”

Uttering a softly keening sound, she bit her lip, her youki stretching toward him, wrapping around him, stubbornly refusing to let go.

Strange how it offered him a sense of order, of reason, calming him when he felt as though he just couldn’t do it anymore; as though his lifetime of running, of hiding, of struggling to deal with something that he’d never understood was too damn much. “I remember thinking that it looked strange . . . her bright yellow kimono stained with her blood . . . and I wanted to die. God, how I wanted to die . . . It was . . . my fault because I . . . because I couldn’t save her . . . I couldn’t save her . . .”

“And you think that makes you a monster?” Isabelle challenged softly, her tears falling like rain. “It doesn’t . . . and it doesn’t make you a murderer, either.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t it? It’s a crime to kill humans, and I—”

“And you think that my Sesshoumaru-ojii-san never killed humans? Or my InuYasha-jii-chan, for that matter? Maybe it wasn’t right, but maybe . . . Maybe it wasn’t entirely wrong, either.”

He didn’t respond to that right away, lost in his thoughts, his fresh grief for a minute. It was still as vivid in his head as though it had just happened yesterday; still as painful as it had been centuries ago. When he spoke again, it was in a tone gruff that was tinged with emotion that he simply couldn’t repress. “I . . . I wandered for years trying to make sense of it . . . I felt as though I was losing my mind sometimes because there wasn’t anything I could think of to justify it, and the anger sort of . . . festered, I guess, so when I heard about this edict—hide what we are so that we could co-exist with humans? I thought it was a kind of betrayal, like my family’s deaths meant less than nothing. I thought all humans were evil creatures.” With a sigh, he rubbed his forehead, tried to make sense of the emotions that just wouldn’t let go of him. “I . . . I _hated_ them, and when I heard about Terfoure’s group of dissidents, I joined them. They said that they wanted to change things, but that they wanted to do it peaceably. What happened to your grandmother . . . It wasn’t supposed to be like that.”

“And you still saved my grandfather,” she said softly, sadly.

Shaking his head ruefully, he cast her a hesitant glance, no more than a momentary flicker, unable to voice the thing that haunted him most even as he struggled to find the words to lay his emotions bare. “Everything I touch gets ruined. I’m alone now because I choose to be—because that’s how it has to be . . . and you . . .” he squeezed his eyes closed for a long second, gathering what was left of his shattered pride to tell her what she ought to have realized long ago. “You should go before I ruin you, too.”

She exhaled softly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, heaving a tumultuous sigh as she gathered her thoughts, as Griffin waited for her to say something—to condemn him, to rail at him. “I’m not going anywhere, Griffin,” she finally said.

“Isabelle . . .”

She let out a deep breath and sniffled, but he could feel the edges of her youki stretching, reaching . . . embracing and soothing, and as much as he wished it were otherwise, he couldn’t help but draw comfort from the brush of her aura on his. “Maybe you did those things, and maybe you shouldn’t have, but I can’t judge you, can I? When I think about my family—my parents, my sisters . . . if someone did those things to them, do you think that I wouldn’t want vengeance, too? I don’t know that I would do what you did, but I didn’t see what you saw, and I wish I could change things for you, but I can’t . . . I know you _now_ , here, and I’ve seen you with the children in your classes . . . you love them, don’t you? You’d protect them with your life, and _that_ is the man I know . . . You’re a good man, whether you want to believe it or not.”

He finally dared to look at her then, his gaze wary, guarded, full of doubt that he couldn’t let go. Her eyes were still full of tears, and yes, there was a deep-seeded misery there, too, but he understood, didn’t he? That emotion wasn’t there because she despised him. It was there because she . . .

“I-Isabelle,” he murmured, struggling to comprehend the one possibility he hadn’t even considered. He hadn’t once thought that maybe she’d want to stay with him, and while he couldn’t see why she’d want to do that, maybe he shouldn’t question it, either . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Gavin paced the floor, throwing his impatient glance balefully toward the window as the plane he was about to board taxied into position outside the plate glass windows. It was nearly four hours late, and given his already volatile frame of mind, he could feel the fragile control he held over his temper growing thinner and thinner with every passing second.

He wasn’t the only one, no. Other people who were booked onto the flight were grumbling, too, though to be completely honest, Gavin didn’t actually pay any attention to them. He didn’t doubt that the inconvenience was bothersome to everyone, but he also had a feeling that no one else was making the flight for quite the same reason he was. At least he’d had the presence of mind to call ahead to change his connecting flight. If he had to sit in an airport on standby waiting for a seat to open up, he’d very likely come completely unglued . . .

The vibration of the cell phone in his breast pocket drew him out of his internal ranting, and he sighed as he pulled it free and scowled at the small monitor. “Hi, Jilli,” he said, willing himself to sound calm when he answered the call.

“Gavvie! I’m just calling to let you know I got here just fine.”

“Good,” he said, rubbing his forehead as he flopped into one of the impossibly uncomfortable chairs. “No swimsuits, right?”

She laughed. “It’s a layout for Birch Heron’s fall line—you know, evening gowns and all that.”

He made a face, knowing damn well that some of those evening gowns were ten times worse than any swimsuit could ever be. “Thought you were going to quit modeling,” he grumbled, jiggling his right leg impatiently as he scowled in the direction of the still-closed doors used for boarding the plane.

“This was already booked, remember? Besides . . . I’m saving up money so we can move back to the ranch sooner.”

“I can take care of the ranch, Jilli. I told you, just save your money. Put it in a trust for our pups or something . . .”

She giggled. The sound was completely reassuring and more than enough to wear the edges off his frayed nerves even as the not-so-subtle pang of guilt reared its ugly head. “Are you still at the airport?” she asked, likely hearing the PA system announcements in the background.

He sighed. “Yeah. Flight was delayed. I think they’ll be boarding soon, though.”

“Mm,” she intoned in a commiserating tone. “You won’t be gone long, will you? How long is your conference again?”

Wincing at the lie he’d used to keep Jillian from being worried or worse, he cleared his throat and took his time formulating his response. “I don’t know,” he replied at length, hunching forward and rubbing his temple with his free hand. “Not too long,” he promised.

“Okay,” she said then heaved a sigh. “What are the odds that you’ll be home when I get back?”

He grimaced since he knew that she was only going to be gone for a week, max. “I’ll try,” he assured her, hoping that his answer would be enough to satisfy her.

“Well, should you meet some hot stockbroker-lady there, you’d better make sure you let her know that you’re my Gavvie,” she teased.

He could feel his face flaming uncomfortably at the assertion in Jillian’s voice. “Like that would happen,” he mumbled. “I’ve got to go. They’re starting to board my plane now,” he lied.

“Okay, and you know, if anyone hits on you, you’d better tell them that you’re taken— _really_ taken,” she reminded him.

Grimacing as his entire face flooded with embarrassed color, Gavin cleared his throat and ducked his chin a little more. “Th-that won’t happen,” he grumbled, unable to staunch the flow of blood below the surface of his skin.

“Oh, _please_ , Gavvie! You think women don’t notice when a sexier-than-hell man walks into a room? Do you suppose we’re all dead?” she chided.

“Jill- _i_. . .”

She laughed softly, a sure indication of her teasing. “All the same, make sure they know,” she reiterated. “You know, I could fly out there to meet you if I finish up before you do,” she offered brightly.

“Uh, no,” he blurted then winced. “I mean, that’d just be a lot of trouble for you, wouldn’t it? Just . . . Just go on out to Maine and visit with your parents. I’ll meet you there, okay?”

She didn’t seem to notice his abruptness. “Yeah, all right. Besides, I haven’t really gotten a chance to talk to Daddy since all that stuff happened. He seemed fine on the phone, but you know how that can be . . . Daddy’s never wanted us to worry about things . . .”

“All the more reason to go out there, don’t you think?”

“Have I told you lately how wonderfully thoughtful you are, Gavvie?” she quipped.

“Y-Yeah,” he agreed as another stab of absolute guilt riddled through him. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

“You’d better,” she said, a hint of sulking in her tone. “I love you.”

“I . . . I love you, too,” he murmured.

The line went dead, and he stared at his cell for a long moment before hitting the disconnect button and dropping it back into his pocket again. Heaving a sigh as he got to his feet, he shuffled over to the windows as he fought to suppress the quiet condemnations that kept running through his mind.

‘ _It’s because you lied to her_ ,’ his youkai voice piped up, tone thick with accusations. ‘ _You lied to your_ mate.’

‘ _You know why_ ,’ he thought with a mental snort.

‘ _Because you think she’d have insisted on coming with you_.’

‘ _I didn’t_ think _it; I_ knew _it_ ,’ he retorted then sighed. He’d lied to her, plain and simply; told her that he was going to a conference in San Francisco because the last thing he wanted was for Jillian to know the truth. It wasn’t that he was trying to keep anything from her; not really. No, he simply knew damn well that if he’d told her his true intention, she’d have insisted on coming with him, and while he wouldn’t have minded that so much, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something really wasn’t right, and Jilli . . . maybe she didn’t really need to know anything until Gavin had ascertained some things for himself, first. She was always impetuous to a fault. It was one of those things he adored about her, but it was also one of the reasons that he hadn’t told her his true intentions.

It just seemed to him that Dr. Avis had genuinely enjoyed talking with Jillian about her biological parents—at least her mother, anyway. It didn’t seem right for him to just start avoiding them in such a manner, damn it, and while Cain’s hands might be tied—Gavin could understand that, he supposed, even if he didn’t completely agree with Cain’s assertions that there wasn’t really anything he could do—Gavin’s weren’t, were they, and he wanted answers.

‘ _You know why Cain can’t do anything. He’s tai-youkai, and he turned Avis over to the jurisdiction of the Australian tai-youkai. Call it politics, if you want, but you know as well as anyone that he’s right when he says that he doesn’t really have any grounds to go waltzing in and demanding answers when nothing appears to be wrong_.’

Be that as it may, Gavin couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, the entire situation was being underplayed, too. Perhaps he was being hyper-sensitive. How could he not be when it involved his mate, after all? Still, his father had always told him to trust his instincts, and his instincts were being sorely tested at the moment. The bottom line was, he had to know, one way or another, exactly what was going on, and he wasn’t about to give up without getting those answers. He had to know, both for Jillian as well as for his own peace of mind . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“Here.”

Blinking quickly, Griffin glanced over his shoulder as Isabelle held out a steaming mug of fragrant tea.

“Th-thanks,” he muttered, grudgingly accepting the drink as he settled back in the recliner, wishing for the millionth time that he could brush aside the unsettled feeling that just wouldn’t go away. He’d laid it all out on the table for her, so to speak, and while she hadn’t run away as he had figured that she would, she had been uncharacteristically quiet in the time since.

The gentle touch of her hands on his temples startled him, and he jerked away, sloshing the contents of his mug up over the edge though very little of it actually spilled. Scowling at her as his cheeks heated uncomfortably, he craned his neck to pin her with what he hoped was a formidable glower as he set the mug on the small table beside the recliner with a heavy thump. “What do you think you’re doing, Jezebel?” he muttered though his tone lacked any real irritation.

She tugged on his shoulders. He resisted, ready to stand up if it would help him escape her attentions.

‘ _Why?_ ’ his youkai asked suddenly. ‘ _Why do you want to?_ ’

‘ _Because_ ,’ he shot back automatically, ‘ _she doesn’t_ —’

‘ _But she does, you know? You told her. You told her_ everything _, and she’s still here, isn’t she? She’s still here_ . . .’

The truth in that surprised him. It took a moment for him to understand the implications of it all. He’d spent so long believing that he didn’t deserve an ounce of compassion that it had become habit, hadn’t it? Pushing away everyone he came in contact with—keeping them at arm’s length or better . . . it had become second nature, hadn’t it? And now . . .

Still, old habits die hard, he supposed, grunting as she kept coaxing him to sit back. He finally complied, albeit with marked ill-grace manifested in the form of a pronounced sigh of complete exasperation. True to form, she laughed softly as she massaged his temples in little circles with her fingertips. “Mama does this for Papa sometimes. She says it helps him to relax.”

He uttered a grudging ‘hrumph’ but didn’t wave her away. It _did_ feel good, damned if it didn’t—not that he’d admit any such thing to her, after all . . .

He was almost asleep, lulled by the gentle touch of her fingers when she sighed softly, her hands falling to his shoulders. “Scoot over, Dr. G,” she said, her voice low, as though she thought that if she spoke any louder, she’d startle him.

Forcing his eyes open, he scowled as she stepped around the chair and swatted his knee with the back of her hand. “There’s not enough room,” he contended, feeling unaccountably irritated but unsure as to whether it stemmed from his near-drowse that she’d so callously interrupted or because he’d let himself nearly fall asleep, in the first place.

She rolled her eyes. “That’s the biggest recliner I’ve ever seen. There’s plenty of room, so scoot over.”

He snorted. Loudly. “Maybe for a _normal_ ass. Yours is _huge_ , remember?” he grumbled as he scooted over just a little.

She giggled quietly as she crawled into his lap, resting her head on his shoulder, rubbing his chest with her hand. “Get over it, Griffin. You’re stuck with me, you know.”

He snorted once more, wrapping his arm around her, pressing his hand against the side of her head, his fingers sinking into the downy softness of her hair. She sighed and cuddled closer to him as he sought to keep her head from moving, sought to keep her from seeing the trace redness that crept up his cheeks at the perceived intimacy of the moment. No doubt about it, it was going to take some getting used to, wasn’t it?

“Griffin?” she asked, fingering the ends of an unruly strand of hair that kept falling over Griffin’s forehead.

“What?”

“How old were you? Back then . . .?”

He sighed, unsure if he really wanted to talk about it anymore but unable to shake the feeling that he really owed it to her—to Isabelle—to answer her questions. “I was . . . seventeen . . . It was my . . . my birthday . . .”

“Your . . . birthday . . .?”

He could feel the sting of his words rack through her as her body stiffened against his, her fingers closing around a fistful of his shirt. His own pain was oddly muted, and he couldn’t quite help himself as he rather clumsily rubbed her back. “It . . . it was a long time ago,” he said, almost apologetically. “I . . . I don’t even remember when that is anymore . . . I just remember that the cherry blossoms were thick in the trees . . .”

“Griffin . . .”

He shook his head and drew a deep breath, as though he was set to put up a good front, no matter what. “It’s all right,” he muttered.

A little sound made him blink. Akin to a growl, more of a whine, she narrowed her eyes as she gazed at him, her brow furrowing almost stubbornly. “They were your family, and no one— _no one_ —should have had to see what you saw,” she whispered, her voice fierce despite the softness.

“It’s . . . all right,” he said, unsure why he was trying to reassure her.

She uttered a quiet sound that bespoke her belief that he was lying. He didn’t argue with her. “That’s why you work with children, isn’t it? Because you feel bad for what you did . . .”

He frowned, unconsciously tightening his arms around her. “Maybe.”

Leaning away so that she could look up at his face, she smiled one of those trembling little smiles that was mere inches away from tears. “You know something?”

Why did that smile make him nervous? “Wha-a-at?” he drawled suspiciously.

“You’re going to be a hell of a father.”

He snorted, and if he hadn’t been holding her, he might have shot to his feet in surprise. “F-F- _Father?_ ” he choked out.

“Yes.”

He snorted, casting her a nervous sort of glance. “Y-you’re not . . . not . . . uh, you know . . . A-A-Are you?”

To her credit, she didn’t laugh at him, but it was a close thing. “Not that I know of. You want me to be?”

“One thing at a time, Jezebel,” he grumbled, unable to turn his crimson stained face away fast enough to avoid her growing amusement.

Her smile faded slowly, her eyes glowing with a sort of emotion that Griffin didn’t try to comprehend. To be completely honest, he wasn’t entirely certain what to think, not now. He hadn’t realized before that things would be so different once he had allowed her to get past the invisible lines he’d drawn so long ago, but he should have known. No, not different, exactly, he had to allow. It was . . .

It was unsettling.

‘ _And kind of . . . nice_ ,’ his youkai voice ventured in an entirely too-neutral tone.

He didn’t remark on that, but he did shift enough to allow her a bit more room.

The smile faded just a little as she continued to stare at him. The warmth of the small lamp beside the chair seemed to lend her pale skin a hazy sort of glow, darkening her eyes to a warm sherry shade that reflected the seriousness that bordered on reverence that he didn’t completely comprehend. The complete gravity in her expression made him uncomfortable; made him wonder exactly what she was thinking . . . and why she was staring at him in such a way . . .

Her hands were curiously steady as she slowly reached up to cradle his cheeks. The corners of her lips twitched precariously, as though she couldn’t quite decide whether she wanted to smile or cry, yet there was something altogether tender in the gentleness of her touch as it fluttered over his face.

He jerked back when her fingertips brushed over the puckered flesh of his scars—an involuntary reflex as he tried to duck his chin, to turn his head enough so that she couldn’t get a good look at the disfiguring marks. He caught her hands in one of his and leaned to the side, fumbling around for the chain pull on the lamp. “Too bright,” he muttered, wishing for the life of him that he would stop the infernal blushing that he couldn’t seem to quell.

Isabelle wormed her hand away and put her hand on his to stop him. “Don’t,” she said, her voice insistent despite the softness.

He wasn’t ready to give up so easily, though, and he shooed her hand away before reaching for the cord once more. “There’s a fire,” he grumbled in what he hoped was a reasonable tone.

“Griffin,” she chided, this time grasping his hand and tugging it back gently but firmly. “I realize you don’t want to look at me, but I want to look at you, so you’ll just have to deal with it.”

He could sense the teasing in her voice. She knew him a little _too_ well, didn’t she? Knew the real reason that he was trying to hide in the shadows, and she understood.

Clenching his teeth so tightly that he could feel his jaw ticking, he lowered his gaze, felt his hands break out in a cold sweat as he struggled to stay still while she took her time looking him over. Trying to ignore the tiny voice in the back of his mind that insisted that she was going to find him somehow lacking, he couldn’t help the wince, the flinch, as her fingertips returned to trace the jagged lines of the scars once more.

He closed his eyes, unable to bear the thought of looking at her. Moments later, she shifted on his lap, and he felt the warmth of her body radiating through the thin fabric of her nightgown as she pressed her lips against the scars. One by one, she kissed them, trailing her lips over the roughened skin, touching each part of them, willing him to understand that they didn’t matter to her, and . . . and seeking to show him her complete acceptance of everything he was.

An unfamiliar sting tingled in his nostrils as an unrelenting ache poked at the backs of his eyelids. Something about her simple gesture was enough to shatter the very last of his resolve, to crumble the last traces of resistance that he hadn’t realized he’d still been clinging to. Blinking quickly, he forced himself to look at her, frowning in wonder and trace horror when he saw the silent tears coursing down her cheeks. Eyes closed, brow furrowed slightly, she kissed him slowly, methodically, and he wondered in an absent sort of way, how it could be; how she could be stronger in her own way than a thousand men, hell-bent on going to war . . .

“I-Isabelle . . .” he whispered, swallowing down the lump that thickened in his throat.

She turned her face slightly, her lips seeking out his in the softest of kisses, like a breath or a sigh. Opening her eyes, she sniffled as a trembling yet vivid smile broke over her features, and in that moment he knew that it wouldn’t matter how long he lived or how many times he looked at her, this woman would forever be more precious to him than anything else could ever be.

She cuddled against him then, tucking her head under his chin, her eyes fluttering closed despite the stunted breaths that rattled through her.

Settling back, he closed his eyes again, hesitantly tightening his arms around her. He was completely exhausted, he realized, though not in an entirely bad sort of way. It felt as though the weight of years—of centuries—was suddenly gone from him, and in the first few moments of the foreign sense of peace came the realization that it was her gift that had afforded him this—a gift as intangible as the waning seasons but as enduring as the mountains and the hills and the seas . . .

The gentle lull of sleep was beckoning him when he heard her voice coming to him as though from a million miles away. He wasn’t sure if he had really heard her or if he had simply willed it to be so, and he thought that maybe he smiled . . .

“I love you, Griffin Marin . . .”

That’s what he thought she’d said . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _Oh, Griffin_ …


	54. Upheaval

Sending a surreptitious glance up and down the length of the moderately busy sidewalk that ran the length of the street, Gavin couldn’t see anything that he would consider suspect as he tapped his foot and waited impatiently for Dr. Avis to open the door yet knowing deep down that he wasn’t going to. Something about the aura surrounding the doctor’s residence felt empty, and while he couldn’t exactly place his finger on the why of it, it didn’t really matter when his instincts were screaming that something was definitely wrong.

Moving his gaze back to the closed door, he scowled at the knob. There wasn’t a keyhole—Gavin wasn’t surprised. The old-fashioned metal key-locks became outdated long ago, and while they could still be found in some places, most folks had gone to the electronic touchpad locks or the more expensive bio-locks or thumb-pad locks. Dr. Avis’ small townhouse had a keycard lock—almost outdated though they were still being produced. The video monitor over the card swipe lock, however, was cracked and very likely unusable.

He should have thought to borrow his father’s lock kit, he thought sourly with a shake of his head. True, he hadn’t told Moe Jamison exactly what he was up to, but his father wasn’t stupid, either. Moe had walked into Gavin’s bedroom as the latter was packing for the trip, and it hadn’t taken him more than a cursory glance to ascertain that Gavin definitely wasn’t packing for a stockbroker’s conference, in any case. Moe hadn’t called Gavin on the lie, though he had admonished him to be careful.

Still, that lock pick kit that consisted of about a dozen devices meant to grant access even when access hadn’t been authorized would’ve come in handy, damn it. Then again, he thought with a sigh, there was a good chance that passersby might consider it to be even stranger to see him standing on Dr. Avis’ porch with his back all hunched over as he tried to break the lock . . .

‘ _Maybe there’s another way in_ ,’ his youkai voice prodded.

Gavin nodded. Stepping back, he tilted his head, taking in the edifice of the rather nondescript building. The windows were closed, it seemed, without as much as a crack in the panes. ‘ _Damn it_ . . .’ he thought, his expression darkening. He’d have to wait until the cover of night, wouldn’t he?

‘ _Check around back first_ ,’ his youkai suggested.

‘ _Good idea_.’

Sparing a moment to cast another cursory glance up and down the street, Gavin loped down the steps of the stoop, and, satisfied that he wasn’t being watched, he darted around the side of the building. It only took him a minute to figure out that the back door was locked, too, which just figured. Was Avis the kind of man who checked the locks every night, or was he worried about something else . . .?

He shook his head. It _didn’t_ make sense, and that was the real reason he was here, after all. Cain had said that Avis didn’t seem the kind to present a real threat—that was why he’d hired people to do the job for him, wasn’t it? Removed as he had been from the ability to hire more thugs, Avis, himself, was powerless, and while Cain’s gut instinct might have been to order Avis killed for his transgression, Jillian had begged for him to let him live, and why?

‘ _Because_ ,’ Gavin thought with a grimace. ‘ _Because she had questions that only Dr. Avis could answer—questions about her biological parents; questions about where she’d come from_ . . .’

Was that the real reason he was there? Jillian was concerned, and while that was to be expected, no one else knew, did they? They didn’t see her with that faraway look on her face, that sadness in her beautiful eyes. They didn’t see her try to hide the tears that she wiped away when she thought that no one was looking . . . They didn’t know how desperately she wanted to understand exactly what had happened, and they didn’t know the deep-seeded feeling that she just wasn’t good enough despite the love and absolute devotion she was given unconditionally by her adoptive parents. Gavin understood, or at least he tried to. Truthfully, he probably never would really comprehend it on the level that Jillian did. He supposed that it was a feeling that only someone who had been given up for one reason or another could ready empathize with . . .

And maybe that was the thing that had compelled him to come. He’d seen it in her eyes one time too many, and if there was any way he could prevent her from having that look on her face again, he’d do it . . .

Heaving a sigh as he surveyed the structure from the shadows and relative privacy of the small yard, he frowned. The grass hadn’t been cut in a while, and while the season was heading into autumn here, he had to wonder why it was that no one had seemed to notice something like that. Most cities had ordinances regarding such things—at least, they did in cities where having any sort of yard was possible. It was something else he could add to the list of strange things, he supposed.

Standing in the shade of a leafy tree, he narrowed his gaze as he stared at a window a few feet to the right of the back door. Upon first glance, he’d thought it was closed, but the bottom of the window seemed wider than the others, and as Gavin slowly walked forward, he could see the slight crack—no more than half an inch—between the window and the sill.

Grunting as he wedged his fingertips into the crack, he braced his shoulder against the wall as he tried to force the pane up. It wouldn’t budge, and he recalled in an absent sort of way the talk he’d overheard when he’d stopped to get a cup of coffee earlier when he’d been assuring himself that he was doing exactly what any other man would do if he was worried about his mate. A couple of waitresses had been talking about the excess amount of rain they’d been getting of late. In light of that, he had to wonder if the window wasn’t swollen . . .

Stepping away when the window frame groaned in protest of the force he was applying, Gavin tamped down the surge of anger that rose in him. He wasn’t sure whether or not the place had security systems installed, but he didn’t want to take the chance that it might. He simply wanted to make sure that Avis was all right, didn’t he? He didn’t want or need to get arrested for his efforts . . .

‘ _Hell_ . . .’ he thought with an uncharacteristic growl.

‘ _No, wait_ ,’ his youkai said. ‘ _You could get in there, you know_ . . .’

‘ _I . . . could . . .?_ ’ he countered uncertainly. Even if he managed to get the window open, he wasn’t entirely sure that he could get through it. It was rather narrow, and from where he stood, he could see that the window, itself, was situated over the kitchen sink. Frowning at the dinginess that seemed to coat the glass on the inside, he let out a deep breath full of abject disgust and swung away from the man-made barrier. He was so close and yet just a little too far, and the irritation that accompanied that thought was enough to make him grit his teeth together—hard.

‘ _No, Gavin, listen . . . if you took your energy form, you could do it. You could fly right in there without messing with the window_ . . .’

That thought stopped him short, and he carted around to stare at the window once more. In his lifetime, he’d only done that a couple of times since it wasn’t something that was considered commonplace. After all, youkai were to hide what they were, and if one were to do that in the presence of humans, then it would be considered dangerous to the ruse they collectively held together. Glancing around once more, he sighed, realizing too late that his very presence in Avis’ back yard was probably more suspect and more noticeable than a moment where he might disappear. Any casual observer would likely just think it was a trick of the eye and not puzzle over it for more than a moment at best . . . Still, he stepped over, retreating into the darkest shadows in the corner between the building and the tree, closing his eyes and willing his body to dissolve. He could feel the foreign tingle in his limbs, and the sudden rush of air that lifted his bangs rushed him forward. It was a strange thing, really. Guided more by intent than by any real conscious thought, he felt the floor solidify under his feet as his body took form once more.

He was in the kitchen of Avis’ home, and he could tell that the man wasn’t there. In fact, there was a strange sort of stillness that only seemed to settle over a place if it had been vacant for some time. More of a feeling than anything else, he’d noticed the same sort of stillness in other places before. But if Avis wasn’t here and hadn’t been here for a while, then the question loomed larger in Gavin’s mind: just where the hell did he go . . . and why?

Letting out a deep breath as he slowly surveyed the kitchen, he shook his head. He’d been gone a while, Gavin would say. Everything in the place seemed to be covered with a fine layer of brackish dust. Staring at it with a thoughtful frown, Gavin sneezed and shook his head. There was something altogether odd about it that he couldn’t put his finger on, and he wrinkled his nose at the strange odor in the air, too—one that he couldn’t quite place. He’d smelled something like it before, but for the life of him, he just couldn’t remember where . . .

Still, if Avis was gone, maybe he’d left something to indicate the where or the why. Stepping into the small living room where Jillian had sat and talked with the doctor, Gavin brushed aside the unsettling feeling of déjà vu. Spotting the small wooden desk by the far wall, he strode over to it, hoping against hope that he’d find something—a note that he could use or a receipt . . . a phone number . . . something that would help him locate the missing doctor . . .

A tablet of paper bearing the moniker of a local bank on the pages sat in the middle of the desk. A pen lay beside the tablet, but the page was blank. Stifling a frustrated growl, he reached for the pad anyway, making a face as he blew the sabulous dust off the top and narrowed his eyes to examine it. There were faint indents on it, like someone had written something on the page that used to be on top. If he could find a pencil to rub over it, he might be able to figure out what was written there, after all . . .

Wincing as the dust he’d blown off the paper tingled in his nostrils, he turned his head to the side, hitching his shoulder to block the rising sneeze. When he opened his eyes, though, he frowned. The late afternoon sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains covering the long windows on either side of the front door stretched over the floor in hazy stripes, but that wasn’t what held his attention, no . . .

There was a larger pile of the strange dust—more like . . . ashes—on the floor next to the wall, and an eerie outline—vague but there, nonetheless—of a person etched in the same dust on the dingy white paint, and in the floor in the pile of dust was something that looked to be a wristwatch, fastened like it was still being worn, and he could feel his brain slow as a strange sort of realization started to form.

With a muffled curse, he dropped the tablet of paper onto the desk and moved toward the mess, his gaze fixed on the black band. Hand shaking as he hunkered down, as he slowly reached for the device, he grimaced as he grasped the shockingly cool plastic and lifted it, staring at it with something akin to befuddlement as he watched the tiny red light blink lazily.

Digging into his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open with his thumb, dialing the third number on his speed dial. Everything around him seemed to slow, grinding to a crawl where everything and nothing could be discerned. How long ago had this happened? Avis hadn’t answered his phone, hadn’t answered his door for how long . . .? What the hell had happened, and why would someone have . . .?

“Hello?” Cain Zelig’s voice came over the line. He sounded a little groggy, and Gavin grimaced.

“Cain? It’s Gavin,” he said, foregoing the apologies he should have been making for calling his father-in-law in the middle of the night.

“Is something wrong? Is Jillian okay?” he asked, his voice sharpened by worry.

Gavin sighed. “Uh, no, she’s fine. I just . . .” Grimacing, he shook his head, unable to think of a good way to say why he’d called and figuring that he might as well just out with it. “Avis is dead.”

“What?” Cain demanded sharply. “What do you . . . _how_ do you know?”

“I wanted answers,” he stated simply. “I’m in his house, and there’s this dust, like ash, and his tracer is still here . . .”

Cain was silent for a moment, as though he needed the time to digest what Gavin had told him. “Gavin, leave everything where you found it and get the hell out of there,” he commanded.

“Cain—”

“Just do it,” Cain demanded again. “I want you on the next plane out of there.”

Gritting his teeth together, he let the transmitter fall from his fingers into the dust, raising a small cloud of ash that he waved away as he stood up once more. “All right,” he agreed tightly since he didn’t want to comply. He wanted answers, damn it, and just why did he have the feeling that he wouldn’t be getting any of those, either, once he left the building?

Smashing the cell phone against his chest to close the device, he dropped it into his pocket and heaved a disgusted sigh, trying to brush aside the feeling that he’d just been chastised like a pup. Looking around slowly, committing everything to memory, the realization that he’d unearthed more questions than he’d answered grated on him as he moved through the silent rooms heading for the kitchen. His footprints in the dust that had settled over everything seemed to mock him, and he uttered a terse grunt as he turned away from the living room and willed his body to dissolve once more.

‘ _Just what had happened in there?_ ’ he asked himself as he blinked and glanced around the small yard behind Avis’ home. ‘ _Who would want him . . . dead . . .?_ ’

Only the silence punctuated by the rumble of cars passing on the street, the nondescript sounds of a city that seemed oddly devoid of a more humanly presence answered him.

With a sigh, he jammed his hands into his pockets as he slipped around the house and onto the sidewalk once more, casting furtive glances in every direction as though he were searching for some unknown presence. He’d thought that he’d get some answers if he came here, hadn’t he? So why did he feel as though he’d failed completely . . .?

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“Well, if it isn’t my prodigal daughter,” Kichiro Izayoi greeted warmly. “So you didn’t forget my cell phone number, after all . . .”

Isabelle smiled a bit guiltily as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Sorry, Papa. Guess I’ve been a little busy.”

“Too busy for your father,” he teased. “I gotcha . . .”

“Of course not!” she challenged then sighed. “I’m never too busy for you . . .”

His laughter was as warm and welcoming as she remembered, and she smiled despite the nagging knowledge that she really had been avoiding him. ‘ _Not avoiding_ ,’ she thought as she quickly shook her head. ‘ _Not really, anyway . . . he just notices way too much, and then he’d have been on the first plane over to try to fix everything_.’

“Is there a reason you called or did you just miss your old man that much?” he prompted.

Sinking down on the sofa, she bit her lip and frowned at the notebook she’d left on the coffee table. “I always miss you,” she chided.

“About as much as I miss mine,” he retorted mildly.

“Grandpa lives in the same forest you do,” she pointed out.

Kichiro sighed. “Yes, he does,” he allowed. “That’s exactly my point. So what is it that you need?”

Smiling despite herself, she laughed softly at her father’s no-nonsense line of questioning. “Well, it’s about the research,” she replied, seeing no way around the inevitable. “I’ve read over everything, and it all makes sound, logical sense. The thing is—practically speaking—assembling a study group may prove to be a little difficult.”

“Yeah, well, that is pretty sensitive stuff,” he allowed, letting out a deep breath, and she didn’t miss the sound of the chair creaking as he sat back, rubbing his eyes and considering her dilemma. “You may want to be a bit more cautious, too. I mean, it’s all well and good to say that it should work, but if it doesn’t . . .”

“I know,” she said. “Separating out the component in youkai blood sounds logical on paper, but finding youkai willing to donate, not to mention the problems with the higher youkai and their special abilities . . .”

“Right,” Kichiro agreed. “Still, your problems should be dealt with in steps. I think it’s logical to conclude that dog-youkai should be left out of the donor pool, period.”

“Mm,” she murmured, tapping the cap of an ink pen against the table in a steady cadence then heaved a sigh. She’d been trying to think about the research all day—at least, whenever she wasn’t fussing over Froofie—but the truth of it was that the research was the last thing on her mind . . .

“One thing at a time, Baby-Belle,” Kichiro reminded her in his completely pragmatic way. “See what you can do about creating the serum before you worry about assembling a case study group.”

Shaking herself out of her reverie, she nodded. “Right . . . I mean, they researched the serum pretty thoroughly and were convinced that it wouldn’t impact youkai mating practices since the comparative amount of youkai DNA that remained was diluted and pretty nominal, but I’d feel better if I checked all that, myself, too.”

“That’s my girl,” he approved. “I have every faith that you can handle it.”

She smiled despite her wayward thoughts. “Of course I can,” she assured him. Taking a deep breath, she tossed the ink pen onto the scrawl of notes and flopped back. “So tell me how _your_ research is going?”

“Well,” he drawled, his amusement evident in his tone of voice, “it’s doing just fine. In fact, I think I’ve isolated the gene that is responsible for a youkai’s scent. I’ve been toying with a formula that could alter or repress that gene for a short time.”

“Oh? That’s impressive,” she remarked.

“Not so impressive,” he admitted then chuckled. “I was looking for something entirely different.”

She wasn’t daunted, knowing her father’s habit of downplaying his own accomplishments. “Yeah, but that might be a plus for the hunters, don’t you think?”

“For the hunters, maybe,” he drawled. “It could be problematic if it fell into the wrong hands.”

“Isn’t that how it always is? It doesn’t matter what you’re talking about, any time anything falls into the wrong hands, it could be detrimental, don’t you think?”

Kichiro sighed, and she heard his chair squeak as he stood up. A moment later, she discerned the definite scrape of the sliding glass doors that led to the yard behind the house. She smiled. Whenever Kichiro was considering things, he tended to wander around. “Yeah, well, Sesshoumaru’s been saying that maybe Ryomaru ought to retire. Thinks that he’s too familiar or something, and you know your uncle.”

“He doesn’t like that idea,” she concluded.

“Not at all.”

“So maybe this’ll help. I mean, if Uncle can mask or change his scent while he’s out on a hunt, then it would give him another advantage, wouldn’t it? Not that he’d need it. There isn’t a better hunter in the world.”

Kichiro let out a deep breath, and Isabelle had to wonder just how much uproar the idea was causing back home. She had a feeling that it was more than it probably ought to have been. Even if Sesshoumaru had simply suggested that Ryomaru retire, she figured that her hot-tempered grandfather was likely to call him out at dawn for implying that Ryomaru wasn’t up to snuff for any reason, and the real downside was that any time something like this came up, it tended to split the family down the middle. The last time that anything had really caused that big an argument was when Kagome and InuYasha had been at odds over how to handle Mikio’s balance problems. She didn’t really remember that too well, but she could recall the tension in the air wherever she went. Even her parents, as much as they loved each other, had been on differing sides of the discussion. Kichiro had believed that if something could be done to help Mikio back then, then it should be looked into, but Bellaniece had sided with InuYasha, saying that the cure shouldn’t be more traumatic than the ailment, to begin with.

As if Kichiro read her thoughts, he sighed. “It’s not as bad as you’re thinking,” he assured her ruefully. “At least, it isn’t yet. I talked to Sesshoumaru about what I’d found out, and Ryomaru agreed to test it out for me, so Sesshoumaru’s leaving it all up to Toga’s discretion, and, well, you know Toga. He can see his father’s point, but he makes it a point not to agree with him very often . . . Anyway, Nezumi’s of two minds about it, too. On the one hand, she’d love for Ryo to quit hunting, but on the other, she only wants him to do it when it’s his choice and not something forced on him.”

He sounded positive enough, she had to allow. It was enough to reassure her, in any case. With a wan laugh, she sat up enough to reach for a mug of tea—odd, how much she liked it these days—off the table beside the sofa and cradled it against her chest as she carefully settled back once more. “Glad to hear it.”

“All right,” he said suddenly, the scrape of the door closing behind him echoing in the background, “I give up. I figured you’d get around to telling me why you sound so preoccupied, but I suppose that was wishful thinking, so I’m asking.”

Letting out a deep breath, she frowned. It wasn’t the idea of talking to her father about things that she’d learned that troubled her. Kichiro was a very open-minded man, after all. It was finding a place to start that did. It was a lot to take in, wasn’t it? And then this morning . . .

“I’ve just . . . had a lot on my mind,” she hedged.

“Is it about your bear?”

She couldn’t help but smile at the way he’d referred to Griffin as ‘hers’. ‘ _He really is, isn’t he?_ ’ she mused to herself. Her happiness was short lived, though, as images of Griffin’s face—of the absolute grief that was too fresh, too raw to subside despite the centuries that had passed—solidified in her mind. There was too much pain in him; pain that she’d been powerless against, and that was what bothered her most. “Sort of,” she admitted slowly.

“Want to tell me about it?” Kichiro prodded gently.

“I don’t know what to do,” she confessed quietly then grimaced. “I mean, I do; I just . . . I-I don’t know . . .”

“Did something happen?”

“Yes . . . no . . . I mean, nothing happened now, no. It was a long time ago.”

“You’re not making much sense,” Kichiro ventured carefully, as though he was afraid of her reaction.

She sighed again, rubbing her forehead in an infinitely tired sort of way. “I’m not, am I?”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

Wincing, she drew a deep breath, wondering exactly where the beginning truly was; what would her father think in the end? It was true, she knew, that the man she knew now wouldn’t ever hurt anyone, but she couldn’t help but wonder whether her feelings for Griffin might be blinding her to the truth of it. Killing humans was taboo, wasn’t it? It was something that youkai were hunted for; she knew that. Up until she’d heard his story, she’d always believed that there were never grounds to justify that sort of violence. It was what she was brought up to believe, wasn’t it? Still . . .

Kichiro was silent, likely giving her time to organize her thoughts, and while she knew that her father wasn’t the kind of man who would ever pass judgment on Griffin, she couldn’t help but feel like she was betraying Griffin . . . She wasn’t, not really. She just needed to get some perspective on things, didn’t she?

“His family was killed,” she said at last, her voice soft, as though she was afraid to speak any louder, and maybe she was. “Actually, they were . . . tortured . . . and killed . . .”

“Kami,” Kichiro breathed. She could hear the wince in his voice.

She sighed. “Yeah, and . . . and he saw it. All of it. They had him restrained with Ofuda, and he . . . well, he . . .” she trailed off, wishing that she could see her father’s face; wishing that she could see what it was that he was thinking. “He . . . got free and . . . and killed them—all of them . . .”

“And you’re trying to justify his actions?”

She grimaced. Sometimes her father was far too perceptive . . . “No, not really . . . it was a long time ago, and . . . I can’t say that I don’t _understand_ what he did or why he did it. He was seventeen at the time, and he watched them torture and kill his family, you know? If it had been you and Mama and Lexi and Sami . . .”

Kichiro cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice was raw. “Yeah.”

Biting her lip, she took her time sipping the now-tepid tea before giving up on it and setting the mug aside. “He killed . . . humans, Papa: men, women . . . children . . . and I . . . well, I . . .”

“You, uh . . . You want to know if it’s alright not to despise him for it.”

She grimaced at the harshness of his summation but nodded. “Y-yeah.”

Kichiro let out a deep breath. She heard the creak of his chair once more, heard the familiar tapping of his claws drumming on the pasteboard blotter on his desktop. In her mind, she could see the trademark furrow of his brow as he contemplated what he ought to tell her. She knew that expression, and as much as she had dreaded it, she also knew that somehow, her father wouldn’t fail to help her understand her feelings, regardless of his own opinion on the matter. He was one of the few people she knew who could be objective almost always, and maybe that was the real reason she’d called him, after all . . .

“Isabelle,” –she winced at the use of her given name— “do you honestly think that I ‘m going to try to tell you how you should feel? When have I _ever_ done that, hmm?”

“It’s not that, Papa,” she said. “It’s just . . . you . . . Grandpa InuYasha . . . Grandpa Cain . . . everyone . . . you’ve always told me that it’s wrong to hurt humans, and . . . and women and children? But I . . .”

“You love him,” he concluded when she trailed off. It wasn’t a question, and there was nothing behind Kichiro’s tone than the normal pragmatic way that he normally stated things.

“More than anything,” she admitted.

Kichiro grunted. “Sometimes when you love someone, you have to accept things; even things that you might not like or understand. He’s old, isn’t he?”

She frowned at his abrupt question and shook her head in confusion. “I suppose, but I don’t see what—”

“Let me tell you something, all right? Something that you might not have figured out yet.”

“Okay,” she said slowly, dubiously.

“The mind is a strange thing. In some people, it convinces them that what they did was right and just, regardless of what the laws might dictate. In others, it can be far worse than any punishment that could or should have been dished out at the time. It just depends on the person, so the real question that you should be asking yourself is which kind of person is your Griffin?”

“He’s a good man,” she replied indignantly, her anger rising at the perceived questioning of Griffin’s character.

Kichiro sighed at her outburst. “Think about it this way: your great-uncle could have done something if he thought that it was warranted, and it’s true that he might not have heard about the situation until well after the fact, but the point remains that there isn’t much that gets past Sesshoumaru, so I have to wonder exactly why it was that he didn’t do something about it at the time. I don’t agree with the killing of women and children, nor do I think that the killing, itself, brought any real closure to it, but . . .” He paused here as though to gather his thoughts again. Isabelle waited in silence for him to continue. “I know you. Hell, they don’t say you’re your father’s daughter for nothing. I also know that there has to be something special about this bear or you wouldn’t waste your time on him, to start with. Am I right?”

She smiled just a little, pushing herself to her feet and wandering around the living room, shuffling over to the window to stand in the patches of sunlight filtering through the clear glass panes. “He works with children, did you know? Volunteers at a local preschool . . . and he has a Sunday school class that comes over so he can teach them things . . . all sorts of things . . . and I watch him with those children, and I just can’t . . . I can’t imagine him doing anything to hurt them. That’s just not the Griffin that I know.”

“Mm. Sounds like he’s one hell of a guy.”

Her smile widened as she pushed the gauzy curtain aside to stare out at the sun glistening off the tired snow in the yard. Little footprints marred the smooth surface—the silent reminders of the weekend visitors that had attended Griffin’s Sunday morning class. “He is, Papa. He . . . he’s kind of like you.”

“Maybe those children are a part of his penance,” Kichiro ventured with a warm chuckle. “Maybe it’s his way of trying to make amends.”

She hadn’t thought of it that way, had she? At least, she hadn’t really thought of it that way as more than a passing thought, at best, but what her father said . . . it made sense, didn’t it? While Griffin might not admit as much to her, it didn’t really matter in the end . . .

“The old man told me a story once. He said that he nearly lost control of his youkai blood. He cut down a gang of bandits without a second thought, and he said that he enjoyed it. Said that it was the most frightening thing that he’d ever experienced in his life. He said that they were begging for their lives, and he . . . well, you get the picture.”

“Grandpa . . .” she murmured.

“Mm, your grandfather,” Kichiro agreed, his voice muffled by a mug—probably coffee. “Anyway, my point is, he isn’t a bad person, either. People make mistakes: big, small, justified, unjustified . . . it’s one of the things that can’t be helped. It’s what we learn from those things that makes us into worthwhile beings in the end. Your Griffin—the man you know now . . . do you think that it is any different for him?”

She pondered that for a moment, wondering exactly how it was that her father could understand people on a level that she’d never be able to duplicate. What he said made sense, didn’t it, and not simply because she wanted it to be so. As his words sank in, the worry that had been nagging at her all day seemed to fade, too, and the smile that surfaced on her lips was true, genuine. The Griffin that she’d come to know and adore was the same man when all was said and done, wasn’t he, and Kichiro was right. She didn’t have to understand or condone his actions in the past in order to love him, and what was more, he needed that love. She knew he did. “Thanks, Papa,” she said, blinking rapidly against the suspect stinging behind her eyelids.

“What for?” he deadpanned.

“For being you.”

“Wow,” he joked, “don’t think I’ve ever been thanked for that.”

“You should be.”

“Tell that to your mama,” he remarked dryly with an indelicate snort.

Isabelle’s smile turned impish. “You mean she doesn’t know that?”

“I don’t know, but it never hurts to remind her, does it?”

She rolled her eyes, shifting the cell phone from one side of her head to the other. “Papa, while I’ve got you here . . .”

“Hmm?”

“Griffin has problems sometimes,” she went on, hoping that he could help her with this problem, as well. “I mean, it seems like he’s really hurting; like his scars are bothering him more.”

“Scar tissue can do that, especially if there’s a lot of it on or around his joints.”

“But that could be fixed, right? A _good_ plastic surgeon could fix it . . .”

He chuckled at her not-so-subtle hint. “Have one in mind?” he quipped innocently.

Isabelle wrinkled her nose and walked over, retrieving her tea mug off the table on her way toward the kitchen to make a fresh cup. “Well, there is this one . . . they say he’s brilliant, did you know?”

“Brilliant?” he echoed, his amusement evident. “Anyone I know?”

“Maybe.”

He laughed outright at that. “Have you talked this over with him?”

“Not yet, but . . . well, we fell asleep on the recliner last night, and this morning, he was having so much trouble. He tried to hide it, of course, bu-u-ut . . .”

“I think you should talk to him about it before you try to talk me into flying over there,” he pointed out reasonably. “I’d imagine that reconstructive surgery might help, but it’d be pretty hard to get a good idea of the amount of help it would provide unless I actually examine him.”

She sighed, undaunted by his cryptic tone. “He’s . . .” she paused, searching for the right word to explain her thoughts and shook her head when she couldn’t do it. “He just seems . . . I don’t know: overprotective? That’s not the right word—umm . . . well, like he doesn’t want to fix them, I guess . . .”

He considered that then sighed. “He thinks he deserves them,” he concluded almost matter-of-factly.

“Yeah.”

“Makes sense,” he allowed in a tone that bespoke his understanding. “Another part of his penance, maybe. Do his scars bother you?”

“No!” she blurted vehemently. “I mean, they don’t bother me. I love him—everything about him. I don’t want to change him, but he really has problems with his mobility . . . and he . . .” she sighed, hooking the phone between her shoulder and ear as she poured hot water into the mug. Recalling the look of absolute disgust on his features this morning when he’d had to struggle to get to his feet, his jaw bulging as he gritted his teeth, his brow breaking out in a fine sheen of sweat as he stubbornly refused to let her help him, she sighed. “He gets so angry with himself,” she admitted.

“All the more reason why you need to talk it over with him before we discuss this any further,” Kichiro maintained. “He’s a proud man, isn’t he? Do you really want to step on that pride of his?”

“Of course not,” she mumbled, yanking the lid off the honey jar with a rather vicious twist. “Pride shouldn’t have anything to do with this; not if it’ll help him.”

Kichiro sighed then laughed softly. “Pride shouldn’t have anything to do with it, no, but . . .”

She slumped against the counter and caught the phone, crossing her free hand over her chest as she stared at the steeping tea. “I just want to help him, Papa,” she said.

“I’m sure, but Baby-Belle . . .”

“Hmm?”

“You know, daughter of mine,” he began, his chuckle soft, warm—reassuring—though his answer was a little longer in coming, “maybe you already have.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought_** :  
>  _ **Gavin’s Youkai** : _humming the **Mission Impossible** theme.  
>  _ **Gavin** : … Shuddup _…


	55. Misjudgment

“H-Hello?”

Frowning as a long sigh greeted him, Griffin held the phone against the side of his head. “Sorry to bother you, Dr. Marin,” Cain Zelig’s voice came through the line.

“Uh, Griffin’s fine.”

“All right, Griffin . . . Can you talk?”

“I guess so,” he rumbled, sparing a glance out the front window. Isabelle wasn’t due home yet. She likely wouldn’t be for another hour, at least. Though she’d been reluctant to do so, Griffin had maintained that she needed to go to work, needed to restore a sense of normalcy to her life, and while he’d understood that she was concerned about Charlie, Griffin had assured her that the dog would be just fine if she left his side for a few hours; long enough for her to make her rounds at the hospital.

And when that didn’t work, he’d called and asked for a leave of absence, citing personal reasons which didn’t really draw much suspicion since he’d never asked for one before. True, Charlie was still in pretty rough shape, but Griffin wasn’t too worried that the animal would die. It may take him a while to heal, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be just fine in the end. Besides, Griffin figured that Isabelle needed the distraction that work would provide far more than he did, and if his agreement to take some time off to keep an eye on the dog gave Isabelle the reassurance she needed, then he supposed that he could give her that much . . .

“Isabelle . . .?” Zelig pressed.

“She’s doing rounds,” Griffin explained, idly rubbing his knuckles against his upper chest. “Why?”

Zelig sighed again. “I, uh, just wanted to let you know I’ve dispatched one of my hunters to keep an eye on her, so if you sense him in the area—”

“Why?” Griffin interrupted, unable to repress the suspicion that shot to the fore.

His answer was long in coming, as though he had to consider his words. “Avis is dead,” he stated flatly.

“. . . What?”

“Dr. Avis . . . Gavin went to Australia and . . . sort of broke into his house since they hadn’t heard from him in a while.” Zelig exhaled sharply. “He found Avis’ remains and the tracker.”

Pacing across the living room floor and back again, Griffin considered what the tai-youkai had said—as well as what he hadn’t said. “And you think that whoever killed Avis is the one who’s after the research,” he concluded.

“I don’t know,” Zelig replied, his voice drawn, weary. “After what I read of your translations, though, I have to agree with you. The name you mentioned in there—Eaton Fellowes . . . do you know anything about him?”

“My, uh . . . I asked a friend to look into him for me,” he admitted slowly. “Said that it might be an alias for a youkai named Alastair Gregory.”

“Alastair Gregory,” Zelig repeated slowly as though he were weighing the name in his mind. “Never heard of him, but I’ll have my people look into it. Did you get anything else on him?”

“No . . . just that name.”

Zelig let out a deep breath. “Damn it.”

“Pretty much what I thought.”

“Anyway, it’s better to assume that it’s all connected, and if that’s the case . . .”

Griffin nodded slowly. “Then it’s only a matter of time before he figures out that Isabelle’s got the research.”

Clearing his throat, Zelig took his time giving voice to his next thought. “Bas told me that Isabelle’s laptop and PDA are missing, and Bellaniece told me a while back that the ass-monkey’s lab was broken into. There’re just too many coincidences . . . I don’t like it.”

Griffin grunted in agreement. He’d thought the same thing more than once. “Yeah.”

“Anyway, in light of all that, I thought it’d be better to have one of my men around just to make sure that everything’s all right,” Zelig said, his voice slightly muffled like he was rubbing his face.

“No,” Griffin stated bluntly. “I . . . I told you: I’ll protect her.”

“I’m sure you can,” Zelig replied rather dryly, “but between your work and hers . . . You can’t be in two places at one time, can you?”

Scowling as he strode over to the window and pushed the curtain aside, scanning the road to make sure that Isabelle wasn’t pulling into the driveway, he snorted. “Not a big deal,” he asserted gruffly. “I took some time off to stay with Charlie.”

“Charlie?” Zelig echoed rather quizzically.

Griffin made a face. “Her dog.”

“Isn’t his name Froofie?”

“Not any more.”

“I see,” Zelig commented. He sounded like he was trying not to chuckle, then he sighed. “I’d feel much better about it if she wasn’t working. She’s far more vulnerable when she’s out and about, even if she is being watched.”

“She could take a leave of absence, too,” Griffin ventured, pushing away from the window and plodding over to the desk once more.

Zelig pondered that. “She could,” he agreed slowly. “Actually . . . I think her boss is youkai. I could give him a call to see if it’d be possible to arrange it without her knowledge.”

“She has a right to know what’s going on.”

“She needs to know about Avis’ death,” Zelig allowed. “Do you really think it’s best to tell her the rest of it?”

Griffin snorted indelicately. Knowing Isabelle, she’d just laugh at him if he told her about the idea that anyone would actually want to hurt her for any reason whatsoever. It figured. She didn’t possess a damn bit of common sense, did she?

Heaving a sigh of his own, Griffin scratched his head as he pondered the question. “You mean, would she even believe me?”

“Maybe you should hold off on that until we know for sure whether or not these incidences are connected. My gut says they are, but there’s just no concrete proof.”

“Yeah.”

“All right. I’ll leave it up to you, then,” Zelig conceded. “Call if you find out anything, and I’ll do the same.”

“Th-Thanks.”

The call ended, and Griffin dropped the handset onto the charger with a frown. Avis was dead? For some reason, that wasn’t as surprising as it should have been. Griffin had suspected that there was more to the kidnapping story than what he’d heard, hadn’t he? Plopping into the desk chair, he rubbed his eyes with a slightly shaking hand, grimacing as he tried to swallow the bitter taste that nearly choked him.

He hadn’t realized just how badly he’d wanted to be wrong this time. The vague sense of inevitability that he’d had at other times when his feelings had been proven right was lost, and he almost reached for the phone, scowl darkening as the irrational need to reassure himself that Isabelle was all right assailed him.

Heaving a sigh, he tapped his fingers on the desktop. She was fine. He _knew_ that. She’d called not forty-five minutes ago to check on Charlie, and she was fine then. Still, maybe he ought to call just to tell her to come straight home . . .

As if in answer to his troubled thoughts, the cell phone rang, and he started as the irritating song that he’d still not gotten changed buzzed through the quiet. “Hello?” he half-growled as he smashed the tiny device against his ear.

“Hey. How’s Froofie?”

Wrinkling his nose and uttering a terse snort at the name she still used in reference to his dog, Griffin shook his head. “It’s _Charlie_ , and he’s as fine as he was when you called less than an hour ago.”

Isabelle laughed wanly. “Good, good . . .”

“You about done?”

“Just a sec,” she said, the sound of her hand smashing over the phone registering in his ear. She said something, but he couldn’t understand her words and paused a moment before uncovering the receiver. “Yeah, just about. Did you need anything from the store? I figured I’d stop and get stuff for dinner. Salmon all right with you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, frowning as the bulk of his conversation with Cain Zelig replayed in his head. “Come straight home, okay?”

She didn’t respond right away, and when she finally did, he could only grimace and grit his teeth at the overwhelming concern in her voice. “Did something happen? Froofie—”

“I told you, didn’t I?” he interrupted. “ _Charlie’s_ fine. It’s just—” Cutting himself off, he drew a deep breath and cleared his throat. “There’s something I need to tell you. Don’t stop anywhere, all right?”

“All right,” she murmured, her voice still thick with trepidation. “Give me about fifteen minutes . . .”

He grunted and hung up, letting out a deep breath as he leaned back in the chair. The very last thing he’d wanted to do was to frighten her, but he had to make sure that she didn’t end up running unnecessary errands before she came home, damn it.

Tamping down the urge to hightail it to the hospital, he stood up and lumbered toward the kitchen. He didn’t really want a cup of tea, no, but at least it would distract him while he waited for her to walk through the door.

Staring out the window over the sink as he pulled a mug from the cupboard, he scowled at the tree line. As much as he hated to admit it, the idea that Zelig would even have considered sending a hunter out to keep an eye on them irritated the living, breathing hell out of him.   He wasn’t helpless regardless of how he looked on the outside. He could and would take care of things should the need arise.

‘ _That’s not really what Zelig was saying; not at all_ ,’ his youkai pointed out.

‘ _Wasn’t it?_ ’ he grouched, setting the mug aside and reaching for a second one.

‘ _Of course it wasn’t. Stop being so defensive, will you? He told you, didn’t he? He just wanted someone around if Isabelle wasn’t with you_.’

Unwilling to concede a single point, Griffin snorted as he dumped loose tea into his mug and dug in the drawer for the strainer. ‘ _Not with me? Right . . . shaking her off is like trying to get rid of fleas just by looking at ‘em_.’

‘ _If you had fleas that looked like her, you would deal with the itching_.’

‘ _Annoying is what you are_ ,’ he growled, carefully arranging the strainer over the second mug before measuring tea leaves into it. ‘ _What does he think I am? A worthless old man?_ ’

‘ _I highly doubt that. I imagine he knows well enough that you can protect her_ ,’ his youkai spoke, the soothing tone a bit jarring, nonetheless.

‘ _No one will hurt her_ ,’ Griffin thought as he pushed himself to his feet once more, as he paced the length of the living room and back. ‘ _No one_ . . .’

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“For the last time, _I don’t know!_ ”

Glaring across the table at the two youkai, Gavin struggled to control the fraying ends of his temper before he did something really stupid—like barrel across the room to beat some sense into the two.

The dingo-youkai on the left bore his fangs in a gross misrepresentation of a very insincere smile as he fingered the hilt of the dagger strapped to his side. The other youkai—a burly, brutish-looking wolf-youkai—didn’t change expressions as he stared without blinking. Intimidation tactics, Gavin supposed. Too bad he was well beyond caring.

To be honest, he still wasn’t sure exactly what had happened. He’d gone straight back to the hotel, just as Cain had instructed, and he’d called to reserve a ticket on the next flight out. He’d just finished taking a quick shower, in fact, when the unceremonious pounding on the door began. The two youkai had insisted that he come with them, and he’d been here—wherever ‘here’ was—ever since.

They’d been questioning him for hours—the same questions over and over again though they’d rephrased them all at least a dozen times. Gavin didn’t have to be brilliant to understand that they were trying to trip him up or confuse him, and while he wasn’t about to get caught up in their trickery, he was tired; exhausted.

“You really expect us to believe that you just _happened_ to find Dr. Avis’ remains? That simple, eh?” the wolf-youkai finally demanded in little better than a monotone.

“Yes,” Gavin gritted out after counting to twenty in an effort to quell his escalating temper. “I do.”

The dingo-youkai slowly shook his head, and smiled nastily. “Your story don’t really hold water, does it?”

“I think it holds water just fine,” Gavin shot back, his voice heavily laced with a thick dose of sarcasm.

The two hunters exchanged significant looks; looks that drew a low, frustrated growl from Gavin.

Gnashing his teeth together and struggling to find a semblance of calm, “I’m telling you once more: I didn’t do anything wrong!”

A knock on the door of the room interrupted whatever they were going to say. The wolf-youkai answered, leaning his head out into the hallway to converse with the intruder in low tones that Gavin couldn’t discern. After a minute, he closed the door again, crossing his arms over his chest as he slowly turned to face Gavin once more, and the smirk that twisted his countenance was downright nasty. “Well, Mr. Jamison,” he began in a mocking tone, “I’m afraid that we’re going to have to detain you for a while.”

“On what charges?” Gavin blurted, his expression registering his absolute disbelief.

“Breaking and entering, for starters,” he replied, nodding at the dingo-youkai who strode over to Gavin without a word, yanking him to his feet and propelling him toward the door.

Gavin stumbled at the sudden motion but caught himself, sparing a moment to glower over his shoulder at the dingo. “That’s ridiculous!” he growled.

“Oh, yeah? How about tampering with a crime scene? Is that ‘ridiculous’, too?” the dingo-youkai taunted. “Take him down to a holding cell.”

The wolf-youkai grabbed Gavin’s arm once more, dragging him out of the room as his voice echoed in his wake, protests against what he considered to be unfounded charges. “I didn’t tamper with anything, damn it! This is insane! _I didn’t do anything wrong!_ ”

Waiting until the sliding doors of the elevator at the end of the hallway closed behind his partner and the American’s voice had faded, Dirk Benning dug the cell phone out of his pocket and dialed.

“I trust everything is taken care of?”

Rubbing the back of his neck as he ambled toward the double paned two way window, Dirk let out a deep breath. “Yes, sir,” he replied.

There was a long pause before he answered. “Good, good. Do make sure that our guest isn’t too uncomfortable.”

“Absolutely. Did you want me to make the call to the Zelig?”

“No,” he replied tersely. “I’ll take care of that.”

Dirk uttered a grunt, lowering the device and clicking the disconnect button before dropping it into his pocket once more with a shake of his head. That pup—Gavin Jamison . . . he wasn’t a killer, and Dirk knew it. Even his partner, Pete Stevens, the hot-headed wolf-youkai, didn’t believe it. He’d thought it more than once over the years since he’d come to work for Jude Covington, the Australian tai-youkai: if someone stepped on the man’s toes, he always—always—made sure that the unfortunate soul lived to regret it. To be honest, he couldn’t make sense of why, exactly, they were holding Mr. Jamison, in the first place. Worse criminals had been turned loose for more serious charges all the time.   A few days ago, one had been brought in for questioning when he’d been overheard making impotent threats against the tai-youkai, and he had been released after issuing what Dirk had considered to be a half-assed apology. Aside from the inference that Covington wasn’t able to take care of matters in his own jurisdiction, there wasn’t really a feasible charge that would stick, in the end, and Dirk didn’t doubt for a moment that Covington realized that, too.

Still, orders were orders, weren’t they, even if he didn’t like the decree . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“I want you to find out everything you can about this Eaton Fellowes—Alastair Gregory—whoever the hell he is,” Cain said, leveling a no-nonsense look at Ben.

“I’ve already got Myrna on it,” Ben commented, watching in an almost preoccupied fashion as Cain dropped the cell phone onto the desk blotter. “Dr. Marin gave you this name, you say?”

Lip curling back in a fierce snarl, Cain shook his head, jamming his hands into his pockets as he slumped against the desk. “Yeah, he said that he had a friend look into Fellowes after he was mentioned in the journal, but he didn’t really know much more than the fact that Fellowes was obviously an alias, and that his real name was Alastair Gregory. I’ll ask him later if he can give me the name of his source, but I doubt he knew much more, either.”

“Well, if Dr. Marin was asking questions, then I’d imagine that his source gave him all the information he had.”

Cain nodded, forcing back the feeling of utter irritation that accompanied the anger he directed at himself for not having seen this coming. True, he hadn’t had enough to go on at the time, but he couldn’t help recalling that he’d doubted Avis’ sole involvement at the time. Unfortunately, everything they’d found had corroborated his story, and Cain . . . He’d thought that maybe he was letting his personal feelings as a father cloud his judgment as the tai-youkai, which was the reason he’d exiled Avis instead of having him exterminated.

The phone on the desk rang, and Cain scowled, his expression darkening even more when he read the number that registered on the caller ID. “Ah, God,” he muttered, his face registering his absolute disdain as he reached for the receiver. “Zelig,” he said brusquely.

“Afternoon,” Jude Covington greeted just as tersely. “It _is_ afternoon there, isn’t it?”

Scowling at the clock that read nearly 6:30 p.m., Cain barely managed to refrain from snorting. “Close enough,” he replied. “Isn’t it a bit early there?”

“Incidentals,” Jude assured him.

“I trust this isn’t a social call,” Cain remarked, shaking a cigarette out of the rumpled pack in his free hand. “Have you found out anything about Dr. Avis’ death?”

Jude chuckled: a sound made entirely for effect, Cain was certain. “Funny you should mention that. We have detained one person for questioning though his level of involvement is still to be determined.”

“Oh? And who that be?”

He could hear the shuffling of papers like the Australian tai-youkai had to look up the name. “I’m sure you know,” Jude said at length.   “The preliminary reports say that he _is_ your son-in-law, after all.”

It took a moment for the information to process. “Gavin? You can _not_ be serious!”

“Absolutely serious,” Jude contended mildly. “He was the first on the scene, he tampered with evidence, he unlawfully broke into Dr. Avis’ home, and, most importantly, he has a dead-on reason for wanting to see Dr. Avis dead.”

“And what reason would that be?” Cain demanded, pushing away from the desk to pace the floor.

“Surely you don’t expect me to go into that sort of discourse over the telephone?” Jude countered. “Face facts, Zelig. Whether you want to believe it or not, your son-in-law he had motive, he had the means . . . He’s the prime suspect, I’d say.”

It took every last ounce of Cain’s self-control to keep from responding to that in kind. As it was, he couldn’t quite contain the trace hostility that erupted in his voice when he finally did manage to answer. “What, exactly, do you want, Covington?”

Jude chuckled, finding a little too much humor in the given situation. “Not a thing, Zelig. I simply called you as a professional courtesy, you know. Your son-in-law is facing some serious accusations, and just because he is married to your daughter does not afford him special treatment here. You’ll understand, I’m sure. We do things thoroughly—very thoroughly. If your son-in-law is man enough to break into another person’s home regardless of the reason, then he’s man enough to abide by the consequences of his actions.”

The line went dead, and Cain couldn’t staunch the low growl that issued from him as he slammed the handset back into the cradle once more. “ _Bastard!_ ” he exploded, heaving a sigh as he wheeled around to pin Ben with a fulminating glower.

“Who was it?” Ben asked without preamble, his expression as foreboding as Cain’s was furious.

“Would you believe,” Cain began in a deadly quiet voice, jaw ticking as he struggled to control the rising need to beat the hell out of something, “that Jude actually _detained_ Gavin? Says that’s he’s the prime suspect just because he found Avis’ remains.”

Ben shook his head and considered it for a moment before offering a curt shrug. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, that’s so.”

“Sounds to me like Covington’s just trying to goad you.”

“Pretty much,” Cain agreed, smashing the cigarette butt in the small ashtray beside him. It was a power play, at best; a witch hunt at worst, and as much as he hated to play those sorts of petty games, he wasn’t really being given a choice, was he?

Heaving a sigh as he made a face, he reached for the phone once more. He’d gotten Covington’s meaning clearly enough: if Cain wanted to have the charges against Gavin dropped, he’d have to make a trip to do it . . .

‘ _If that’s how he wants it_ ,’ Cain allowed grudgingly. It wouldn’t be a completely wasted trip, he supposed. After all, he had a few choice things that he wanted to say to the Australian tai-youkai . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Tugging on the too-tight collar of the stark white button-down shirt, Griffin lifted his eyes without moving his head to survey the restaurant, wondering for what had to be the fiftieth time exactly how she’d managed to cajole him into this . . .

‘ _Oh, get over it, will you? It’s not that bad, is it?_ ’

That was debatable, as far as Griffin could tell. ‘ _Do I really have to remind you that there’s a lunatic out there that may or may not know about Isabelle’s involvement with the research?_ ’

‘ _No, but you were the one who insisted that there wasn’t anything that she needed to worry about, weren’t you? That being the case, you’d better concentrate on making sure that she doesn’t suspect anything, don’t you think?_ ’

Wrinkling his nose and repressing the desire to growl, he decided instead to ignore the irritating voice in his head.

Unfortunately, everything his youkai had claimed was true enough. When Isabelle had gotten home from the hospital, she’d looked completely freaked out, and it had taken a good twenty minutes just to calm her down enough so that she would hear him out. In the end, though, he’d finally gotten her settled down with a cup of tea after she’d pestered Charlie.

“ _So what was it that you needed to tell me?” she asked without preamble, her eyebrows knitting together in a marked frown as she glanced around almost nervously, her hands shaking just the tiniest bit_.

 _Setting his cup on the coffee table, Griffin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Your, uh, grandfather called a little while ago,” he said slowly, carefully gauging her reaction before going on_.

“ _Grandpa Cain?_ ”

 _He nodded. “Yes_.”

 _She looked even more puzzled, and she bit her lip as she considered Griffin’s words. “Why?” she finally asked_.

“ _That guy—that doctor guy . . . the one who kidnapped your, um . . . aunt? Cousin . . .?” Trailing off as he shook his head since thinking about Isabelle’s family never ceased to make his head hurt, he rolled his hand as though to prompt her to fill in the name for him_.

“ _Jillian?” she supplied. “What about him? Dr. Avis?_ ”

 _Drawing a deep breath, Griffin rubbed his eyes with his thumb and middle fingers. “He’s dead,” he stated quietly_.

 _It took a minute for his words to sink in. Staring around the living room in a shocked sort of silence, she didn’t look like she could quite grasp the gravity of what he’d said. “But . . .” she murmured, shaking her head pathetically. “How?_ ”

“ _I don’t know,” Griffin said, placating himself mentally, telling himself that it wasn’t entirely a lie. He didn’t know exactly how the doctor was killed, did he? No, Griffin only knew that he was killed. Zelig never told him how the deed was done_ . . .

 _Staring hard at him for a solitary moment, her eyes flared wide just before she winced. “You think he was . . . murdered, don’t you?_ ”

 _He couldn’t meet her gaze, couldn’t do much more than nod curtly—one solitary jerk of his head. “Yeah_.”

“ _Who would want him dead?” Isabelle asked_.

 _Pushing himself to his feet, he didn’t answer her. Unable to voice what he knew in his heart to be true, he wandered over to the window and stared out at the darkness of the descending evening. Telling her that Avis had likely been murdered over the research—the same research that she hoped to finish . . . He couldn’t do it. He simply couldn’t do it_ . . .

So instead, he’d offered to take her to dinner—anything to get her mind off everything; anything to staunch the questions that he just didn’t want to answer. Seeing that much worry in the depths of the eyes he’d come to know so well . . . it wasn’t something he could do . . .

“Jillian . . . she had so many questions that she didn’t get to ask him,” Isabelle remarked without looking up from the menu.

Griffin blinked and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “About what?”

With a sigh, she closed the laminated folder and set it aside. “Everything . . . things about her biological parents . . .”

“Are those things really that important?” he mumbled, uncomfortable with the perceived intimacy of the current conversation.

“Aren’t they?”

He shrugged and took his time folding his menu and laying it atop Isabelle’s. “She’s got parents, doesn’t she? Your grandparents . . . they raised her as one of their own.”

“Yes,” she allowed slowly. “She still had questions. I mean, I can understand that. All my life, people have said that I got this from Mama or that from Papa or I did something because one of my parents did the same thing when they were young, but Jillian . . . She doesn’t really have answers for those sorts of things, does she? I mean, no one doubts that she adores Grandpa and Grandma, but . . . but the questions are still there, you know?”

He pondered that for a moment, lost in thought even as he gave his order to the waitress. He hadn’t really thought of it that way, he supposed. Small wonder, considering he’d spent the better part of his life trying not to think about the family he’d lost so long ago . . .

The soft intonation of her cell phone interrupted his thoughts, and he frowned as she dug in her purse for the device. “Oh, it’s my boss,” she said when she checked the number. “I need to take this. I’m sorry.”

He grunted in response, trying not to look too interested as she answered the call.

“Hello?” She smiled at him, and he blushed, shifting his gaze to their surroundings. “No, it’s fine. What can I do for you?”

The waitress returned with their food, and Griffin’s eavesdropping was interrupted. Mumbling a terse thank you as she slipped his plate onto the table, he frowned as Isabelle clicked off her phone and stowed it back in her purse once more. “That was fast,” he said.

She sighed and managed a wan smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, he just wanted to let me know that the doctor I was filling in for has decided to come back to work, so-o-o . . .”

“When?”

“He said that he’d be back Monday, so I guess I’m out of a job, at least for now. He said that if I’m interested, one of the other partners will be retiring in the fall, so I could come back then if I wanted to.”

Griffin considered that and nodded slowly. “Not such a bad idea,” he allowed at length. “Give you some time to concentrate on the research.”

Taking her time cutting off a bite of steak, she thought about it. “You’re right,” she finally said. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it makes perfect sense. In fact, I don’t think I could ask for better timing.”

Shifting uncomfortably as Isabelle flashed him a real smile—a warm, bright thing that made his breath catch in his throat—Griffin concentrated on stuffing a hunk of salmon into his mouth and chewing thoroughly. “So just take the next six months or so off.”

She laughed. “I think I will . . .”

Letting out a deep breath, Griffin could feel the slight tension he’d carried since Cain Zelig’s unexpected phone call loosening just a little. It was good timing—damn good timing—and he had to wonder how much of an influence Zelig had been on the time frame. Then again, did it really matter?

Narrowing his eyes on a young man at a nearby table who was quite shamelessly staring at Isabelle, he stabbed at his food rather vindictively and couldn’t help the little growl that surged out of him. The man intercepted Griffin’s dark look and must have gotten the message because he finally looked away.

Griffin sighed as Isabelle launched into a quiet recap of her theories on the research. The faster she was finished with that, the better, in his opinion. He’d admit that it was important, of course, but he’d be damned if it was worth any sort of threat to Isabelle’s safety, either . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Gavin_** :  
>  _... Youkai jail …?_


	56. Unpredictable

Isabelle padded into the living room with her hand bracing her neck, rubbing to alleviate the stiffness that had set in during the last couple of hours that she’d spent looking over the research and jotting notes in her journal. Griffin hadn’t said anything, but he’d gone into the bathroom and had drawn a hot bath for her, complete with a cheesecloth sachet of dried herbs that he’d told her would help her to relax, which had touched her more than she could say. Seeing him with that little blush dusting his cheeks as he’d mumbled that it ‘wasn’t a big deal so don’t make a fuss over it’ was something that Isabelle was sure she’d never, ever forget, and while she’d joked about feeling like she was being boiled for stock, she couldn’t help the warmth that had seeped over her. He wasn’t one for words, no, but he made up for it in the simplest of ways, and she adored him for that.

She did feel a lot more relaxed, she had to admit. Smiling gently as she stared at the bear-youkai sleeping in the old recliner, she indulged herself in a moment of quiet reflection before retrieving the afghan folded over the back of the sofa and spread it over him before returning to the research once more.

Everything was finished, wasn’t it? The Carradine brothers had done their work very well, it seemed. Aside from the worry about using the DNA of a youkai who possessed a bloodline trait, the theories were sound. There were even formulas for the extraction of the needed components. They’d obviously already made a trial batch of serum though it was lost in the years since, and Isabelle’s initial worry that the merging of one youkai’s genetic material with a hanyou’s might lead to unwanted side-effects much like the biological changes that came about due to marking one’s mate were thoroughly considered. By using samples from a number of youkai—the brothers had used ten to create their serum—coupled with the mineral solution necessary to keep the samples from becoming reactive, there was virtually no chance that something like an accidental mating could occur. The only real problem that Isabelle foresaw was procuring lab space in which to work, though she was fairly certain that she’d be able to come up with something. If push came to shove, her grandfather would likely be able to help her out, and if she had to, she could always ask her father to call in a few favors . . .

‘ _It’ll still be best to avoid using samples from youkai who possess bloodline abilities_ ,’ she mused as she brought her feet up on the sofa cushion and scooted down, making herself more comfortable and tapping the cap of the ink pen between her teeth. Youkai like her grandfather and her great-uncle possessed rather frightening abilities that would be much too dangerous to make either of them viable, and while it wasn’t clear, whether anyone else in the family had inherited those abilities, it was simply too great a risk. She’d talked it over with Kichiro a while back, of course, and he had agreed with her initial thoughts on the matter. Even then, it wasn’t clear how those traits were passed down, and while it was simple to assume that they were incorporated into the genetic structure, no one had ever thought to figure it out for certain, especially since no one knew when or if the abilities would even manifest themselves. That was fine, too, really, considering the ones who possessed such things were considered the strongest of the youkai.

No, the only real problem that she could see in the research was the testing. After all, she couldn’t and wouldn’t endanger the test group just to make sure that the serum was doing its job, and according to the documentation, the Carradine brothers had decided simply to examine the reconfigured DNA structure of the group. In theory, it should look much different after the first six months of treatment than it had originally, and those changes were proof that the serum was doing its job.

Another interesting facet was the theory that anyone who started on the inoculations directly after birth should only have to have them until they reached puberty while older children and adults would have to have them once a month when their youkai-blood was highest for the duration of their lives to ensure the effect. Since the concentration of the serum had to be very low to avoid unwanted side effects, it wasn’t strong enough to remain in the body for more than one full lunar cycle, or so they believed. However, it was speculated that an infant’s body was unstable enough to incorporate the administered DNA and that they should be able to fully assimilate it, in essence making it a part of their systems, without any problems.

Griffin had voiced his doubts about that, but it made perfect sense to Isabelle. After all, that was the same thing that had happened to Bastian and Evan, wasn’t it? Though they were technically hanyou, they didn’t have a night when they turned human, either. They used to when they were children, but as they grew and when they reached puberty, that had stopped, making them youkai, for all intents and purposes. It was something that she’d discussed with her father at length earlier in the day, and he’d agreed with Isabelle’s thoughts on the matter.

“ _The research implies that infants are more prone to accept the inoculations long-term than older children or even adults,” she said, her eyes trained on the opened notebooks spread all over the coffee table_.

 _Kichiro considered that for a minute. “Mm. Makes sense. An infant tends to take on many of the mother’s immunities naturally—at least, they do if their mother is youkai or hanyou. In fact, the majority of their DNA seems to reflect a greater influence by the mother than the father_.”

“ _How is that possible?_ ”

“ _Well, think of it this way: we know that much of our bonds, be it between mates or between parents and children, tends to affect us on the physical level, and when an infant is born, what stronger or more necessary bond is there than the one forged between mother and child?_ ”

 _She nodded slowly. “But that bond seems to be stronger between some than it is in others. Take Mama, for example. Her mother died, right? Mama never suffered any adverse effects because of that separation, did she?_ ”

 _Kichiro sighed, and Isabelle could hear the sound of his claws drumming against the desk. “Yeah, well, that was a little different, I’d say. Her mother was human, remember? Even human mates don’t seem to have the same sort of physical bond which is why the emotional bonds are that much more important with them, and one of the reasons that it’s imperative that we mark our mates, especially if they’re human—I mean, aside from the normal reasons of having them live out their lives in our time instead of theirs_.”

“ _I see,” Isabelle remarked, adjusting her reading glasses and pressing her lips together as she pondered her father’s words. “So that’s why infants tend to smell like their mothers_.”

“ _Exactly. The proof of the instability in their systems is clear enough when you consider that it isn’t until that child reaches puberty that their real scent emerges. In theory, at that point, the child’s blood tends to shift toward that of the dominant parent. That’s why in some cases, their mother’s influence remains stronger than that of the father, depending on the kind of youkai and depending on the purity of the blood_.”

“ _Meaning that if you have a youkai and a hanyou as parents, then the children tend to gravitate toward the youkai side_.”

 _Kichiro clucked his tongue. “Not always. As a dog hanyou, you’re stronger than most full youkai who aren’t dog, and while it’s true that your children might take after their father, that may not always be the case, especially if your child is the same gender as you_.”

“ _So if I were to have a daughter, she might be a dog, too?_ ”

“ _Yes_.”

 _That thought made her laugh though she tried to contain her humor since there was a good chance that Griffin might not share her amusement at the idea of producing a daughter who was, for all intents and purposes, a dog-youkai . . . “But take for example, Uncle and Aunt Kagura. Toga is absolutely a dog-youkai, and Aiko is, too, but she can use the wind_.”

“ _True enough,” Kichiro allowed. “Aiko’s ability, however, is more of an attribute than a definition_.”

“ _So she’s essentially a dog-youkai who can harness the power of the wind even if she isn’t technically a wind-youkai._ ”

“ _Absolutely_.”

She’d known for years that her father was a smart man, but she was a bit ashamed to admit that she’d only recently begun to understand exactly how brilliant he really was. When she was younger, he had simply been Papa, the man who could fix anything from a flat tire on her bicycle to the ability to understand complex equations in arithmetic, and she’d sat so often, listening to him play piano without a flaw and without looking at any sort of sheet music. She hadn’t realized back then, just how rare and how wonderful Kichiro Izayoi was. She supposed that she’d believed that all fathers were like him; that all fathers dropped everything to look at the picture she’d colored, to hear about the latest boy she’d become enamored of . . .

Now with her research, she understood. Her father had somehow become her advisor, and while he offered his opinions and was willing to shed light on the things that she needed verified, she realized something else, too; something she never had stopped to think about before: Kichiro was content, wasn’t he, content to allow her this moment, this project. He believed that she could complete it; didn’t possess even a single doubt that she would be able to finish it, and while the effects of the research would be widespread and dramatic, he hadn’t had a second thought about allowing her the opportunity to step out of his shadow, to become a researcher apart from the legacy that he had created—to stand apart from the often-infamous family and to be recognized for her own merit.

‘ _I’ll make you proud, Papa_ ,’ she thought as a tender smile touched her lips. Indulging in a moment of quiet introspection, Isabelle laughed softly, and just for a moment, her father felt so much closer than the ocean and continents that separated them.

“You’re plotting something evil, aren’t you?”

Her laughter bubbled out as she turned to face Griffin. He hadn’t moved, but he had opened his eyes. With a slight grimace, he pushed himself up, letting the afghan fall to his lap as he slowly rolled his head from side to side. “Evil? Maybe.”

“Not surprising,” he remarked, heaving a sigh as he hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he shook his head to chase away the lingering fog of sleepiness. “How long was I asleep?”

“I don’t know. You were napping when I got done with my bath,” she said, pulling off her reading glasses and laying them carefully on the open notebooks. “You want anything in particular for dinner?”

He snorted. “Anything but that spicy stuff you made last night,” he mumbled.

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “It was curry,” she told him, “and it wasn’t _that_ spicy. Even my Grandpa InuYasha can eat it that way, and he’s notorious for being a big baby when it comes to curry.”

Griffin wasn’t impressed, and the scowl he shot her spoke volumes. “I’ll make dinner,” he stated as he braced himself against his knees and slowly stood. “Stay out of my kitchen.”

Her laughter trailed after him, and she sighed. If he ever realized exactly how cute he really was, she’d be in a hell of a lot of trouble, wouldn’t she? Somehow . . . somehow she doubted that he ever honestly would . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Pacing the length of the opulent office and back again, Cain drew a deep breath and tried to assuage his frazzled nerves. After the ungodly long flight that had taken him from Maine to New York City to Dallas to Los Angeles and finally on to Sydney, Australia, he’d opted to come straight here instead of grabbing a bit of rest at a hotel. As it was, Jude Covington was going to be even more put out since Cain had summarily dismissed his secretary and told her in no uncertain terms that he was going to wait for the tai-youkai in his office.

It was absolutely ridiculous, in Cain’s opinion. Detaining Gavin was nothing more than a childish tactic designed to inconvenience him as much as Jude felt that he’d been inconvenienced, to start with.

He heard the sound of approaching footsteps approaching in the annex. Muffled and steady, they closed in, and Cain had just turned to face the door when it opened. Entirely devoid of any traces of emotion, Jude Covington, the Australian tai-youkai, stepped into the office and inclined his head—as close to a greeting as Cain was likely to get, all things considered. He responded in kind.

“What a surprise,” Jude remarked, flicking a spot on the immaculate sleeve of his navy blue suit as he strode toward the hulking desk situated in the middle of a wall of windows that overlooked downtown Sydney. “I trust your journey was agreeable.”

“I don’t have the time or inclination to make small talk, Covington,” Cain said. “I’d like you to release Gavin Jamison to my custody, and I’ll make sure that he leaves Australia.”

“On the contrary,” the tai-youkai countered, opening a file and looking it over, his tone only marginally interested as he flipped the low hanging auburn ponytail over his shoulder in a blatant show of nonchalance. “I did say that he’s the prime suspect in the Avis case, did I not?”

Tamping down the impulse to roll his eyes, he opted instead to cross his arms over his chest and level a pointed scowl at Jude, instead. “You and I both know that Gavin had nothing to do with the doctor’s death,” he pointed out in what he could only hope was a reasonable tone.

Jude leaned back in his seat, sticking his tongue in his cheek as he considered Cain’s words. Pale green eyes narrowing as though he were trying to gain Cain’s measure, he didn’t respond for a moment. “Perhaps you should have kept Dr. Avis in your jurisdiction if you didn’t trust me to deal with him here.”

“It had nothing to do with whether or not you could deal with him,” Cain pointed out calmly. “He said that he was the one who had ordered my daughter kidnapped, and there was no other evidence to suggest otherwise at the time.”

Jude considered that then shook his head. “Tell me something, if you will.”

“What?”

His smile was as insincere as it was thin. “Would you like it if, say, I were to imply that you cannot take care of business in your jurisdiction?”

Cain returned the rather nasty grin. “No, I wouldn’t, and I didn’t imply any such thing.”

“Didn’t you?”

“I don’t believe I did, no.”

“So your phone calls inquiring as to Dr. Avis’ well-being were not subtle ways of saying that you wanted to do my job for me?” he challenged.

Cain gritted his teeth and counted to twenty before he dared answer. “No, they were not. They were simply logical questions based on the idea that you wouldn’t have been keeping track of Avis. That wasn’t part of the exile agreement, nor did I wish for it to be. When my son-in-law and daughter came to visit him only to find that he wasn’t home for days on end and he wasn’t answering his telephone, it was natural to be concerned. I passed along that information; no more, no less.”

“Is that what you call it?” he shot back, his voice carefully measured, his expression giving away nothing. His eyes seemed to brighten—the only show of emotion in his otherwise stoic countenance. “Putting a nice face on your meddling really doesn’t change the intent, does it?”

“You never struck me as the sort given to childish displays of pettiness.” Shaking his head, Cain narrowed his eyes on the irritating youkai, the last remnants of his patience snapping like an overly-coiled spring. “So carry your grudge against me if you want, but I’m taking Gavin home with me.”

He didn’t think that Jude was going to give in. Steepling his fingers together as he continued to eye Cain, the Australian tai-youkai seemed more likely to challenge him than to turn over Gavin to his custody. The standoff continued, the only sound to break the silence was the dull tick of the antique grandfather clock.

Finally, Jude leaned forward, pressing the intercom button on the phone.

“Jude?” the secretary’s voice greeted.

“Have Benning bring Mr. Jamison up, please.”

“All right,” she said just before Jude let off the button.

“Should I have questions for Mr. Jamison, I trust that you’ll have him accessible at all times?”

Cain narrowed his eyes but nodded, digging a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it.

“This is a non-smoking building,” Jude pointed out in a much-too reasonable tone.

Taking his time exhaling a steady stream of smoke, Cain didn’t even bat an eye. “I’m leaving as soon as you’ve handed Gavin over to me, though if you want to fine me for it, then by all means: go right ahead.”

He was saved from Jude’s rebuttal when the door opened again. Gavin scowled over his shoulder as he stumbled forward when the hunter—Benning, Cain supposed—gave him a nudge.

“Have a seat, Mr. Jamison,” Jude said, rising to his feet and drawing himself up to his full height. Not quite as tall as Cain, and not quite as broad of build, either, he possessed a sinewy sort of strength that reminded Cain more of a lynx or a jaguar than the dog-youkai he was.

Gavin jerked away from the hunter and flopped into the seat across from the desk, glaring balefully at the tai-youkai and completely avoiding his father-in-law’s gaze in the process.

Jude deliberately took his time eyeing Gavin before he bothered to speak. “Remain, Benning,” he called out when the hunter turned to leave. Benning stopped and closed the door before leaning against it in a completely nonchalant way. “You can serve as witness.”

“Witness for what?” Cain demanded mildly, deliberately blowing a steady stream of smoke directly at Jude’s head.

Jude didn’t answer him. Returning his attention to Gavin once more, he tapped a claw against the desk. “My men have determined that Dr. Avis was dead long before you were caught in his home.”

“That’s what I’ve been _telling_ you,” Gavin snapped. Cain wasn’t surprised. The young man didn’t look like he’d had much sleep since he’d been taken into custody. Skin pale and drawn, cheeks slightly sunken, he needed a good shave and a good meal, though perhaps not in that order.

Jude narrowed his eyes the tiniest bit obviously irritated at the marked lack of respect he was receiving. “Zelig has been _good_ enough to fly in to vouch for your character, though I caution you: I still question your involvement. It isn’t uncommon for a murderer to return to the scene of the crime, especially if he wants to have the death made public.”

Gavin’s jaw ticked as he ground his teeth together. “He was the only connection my mate had to her biological parents. Why the hell would I kill him?”

“Did he or did he not have your mate kidnapped right out from under your nose, so to speak?”

“That doesn’t prove a damn thing,” Gavin growled.

“Maybe not. I have to say, though, if it were my mate, I think _I’d_ want him dead . . .” Pale green eyes surveying him coldly, he flicked his gaze to Cain. “Then again, that might well mean that you, Zelig, had just as much motive as your son-in-law—perhaps more.” Cain narrowed his eyes, but Jude wasn’t finished. “You’re certain you had no idea that Mr. Jamison was coming here to . . . check . . . on Dr. Avis?”

“Pfft!” Cain snorted, rolling his eyes at Jude’s perceived boorishness. “This is all conjecture, Covington, and you know it, so if you’re finished with your asinine questions, we’ll be on our way.”

“Australia is _my_ domain,” Jude said, a glimmer of cold enjoyment entering his stare. “If you dare to step as much as a foot in _my_ domain again, I’ll not hesitate to issue the hunt order, Mr. Jamison.”

“Are you _serious?_ ” Gavin blurted before he had a chance to think it through.

“The hell you will,” Cain remarked rather drolly, his expression carefully blanked though his eyes took on a heightened glow.

“The hell I won’t,” Jude retorted just as drolly. “Care to test me?”

“Cain—” Gavin began only to be cut off abruptly when he intercepted the quelling glance Cain shot him.

“Do _you_ care to test _me?_ ” Cain countered, his threat underlined by the deathly quiet tone of his voice.

Jude didn’t answer for a moment. Seconds ticked away as he considered Cain’s threat. Staring at him as though he expected Cain to back down, Jude suddenly chuckled nastily. “Have we reached an understanding, Zelig?”

“I doubt it will be an issue,” Cain replied.

Clearing his throat as he tapped his fingertips together, Jude’s tight little smile widened unpleasantly. “I’ll say it again: if you enter my jurisdiction again, I _will_ issue a hunt for you, Mr. Jamison.”

Cain might have laughed outright in abject incredulity if he didn’t believe that Jude Covington really was bastard enough to do it. As it was, he refrained from comment on the subject—barely. “Let’s go, Gavin,” he ordered. Gavin snapped his mouth closed on whatever rejoinder he had been forming for Jude since he would have had to be stupid not to understand the warning behind Cain’s tone.

“I trust you’ll both be on the first flight out?” Jude called after them.

“ _Absolutely_ ,” Cain replied, mustering the most insincere smile that he possibly could. It was more of a grimace—not entirely surprising, all things considered . . .

Jude nodded slowly, his smile taking on a somewhat gloating sort of twist, and Cain could feel his eyes following as he headed for the door with Gavin close on his heels. Jude’s hunter stepped aside just in time since Cain wasn’t really in the mood to request that he move out of the way.

Gavin remained silent as he followed his father-in-law toward the stairwell. “Cain—”

“Not a word, Gavin,” Cain growled as he ran down the first flight of stairs.

Gavin heaved a sigh but kept quiet until they were standing on the sidewalk outside the building. “Can he _do_ that?” Gavin finally asked as Cain stepped forward to hail a taxi.

“He can,” Cain allowed grudgingly. As much as he hated to admit it, Jude Covington was the tai-youkai of Australia—the absolute law of the youkai. The only being he had to answer to at all was Sesshoumaru, and Cain knew damn well that Sesshoumaru tended to ascribe to the _laissez-faire_ mindset, bringing to mind the old adage, ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’. “He can, and he would, bastard that he is. Damn it, Gavin, what the _hell_ were you thinking?”

“I was _thinking_ that Jillian deserved to know what was going on, one way or another,” Gavin growled. “I was _thinking_ that this was bothering her more than anyone else knew because she never _told_ anyone else. I was _thinking_ that everyone’s thoughts that we should just sit back and wait because nothing was wrong was absolute bullshit. I was _thinking_ that as her father, you ought to have given a great goddamn about it, in the first place!”

“And you think I don’t?” Cain demanded, jerking open the taxi door and gesturing for Gavin to get in.

Gavin glowered at his father-in-law for a moment before cooperating. Heaving a sigh, he slumped back, his anger draining from him as easily as water crashing over a cliff. “I’m sorry,” he muttered as Cain closed the door and told the driver to take them to the airport.

Cain rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand and slowly shook his head. “I care, Gavin. Jilli is my _daughter_ — _my_ little girl. Of course I care, maybe more than anyone.”

Gavin nodded, turning his attention out the window, watching without seeing as the streets and buildings of Sydney flashed by. “I hate seeing her like that, you know? I had to . . . I had to find out.”

“And knowing that Avis is dead? Will that make it better for her?”

Gavin grimaced then shrugged. “No, but . . . But maybe she can move on now.”

“Maybe,” Cain intoned dubiously. ‘ _Maybe_ . . .’

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

The sound of raindrops smacking against the glass windowpanes created a dull sort of monotony in the otherwise silent chamber, the light from the laptop monitor piercing through the darkness in an eerie sort of way.

Scowling at the blinking cursor in the nondescript text box, he tapped his lips with the tip of his claw, pondering, pondering . . .

“Please enter password to proceed,” the electronic voice prompted.

Curling his lips back in a derisive sneer, he had to repress the desire to smash the machine to bits. ‘ _Intelliface_ ,’ he fumed. ‘ _Damn them_ . . .’

It shouldn’t have been that surprising. Of course they would have tried to use some sort of protection to keep the files from falling into the wrong hands. Truthfully, it was more bothersome and annoying than surprising. Still, he despised the feeling that they were toying with him. That research should have been his long, long ago.

With a frustrated growl, he slammed the laptop closed. The program used to encode and save the data, he knew, was set to delete the file if the password entered was incorrect more than a certain set number of times consecutively. He’d have to be careful, wouldn’t he?

He’d read through all the documents saved on the computer: half-finished letters written to her parents, notes and lists of things that she needed to remember. Nothing he’d read had anything to do with the research, but then that would have been too simple, wouldn’t it?

A small grin spread over his features, twisting his lips in a sinister sort of way. A long-dormant emotion was rising. This woman—this Isabelle Izayoi—she was challenging him, wasn’t she? Flipping open her file and eyeing the image inside, he chuckled—a dry sound that was more a show of utter contempt than anything resembling good humor. ‘ _Hanyou bitch_ ,’ he mused. She’d get hers. They all would.

First things first, however, and the first thing was to get that file open. Good thing he knew the perfect person for the task, and even better that he owed Alastair . . .

“Call Murphy,” he said into the quiet, snapping the file closed as the phone automatically dialed the number. Rising to his feet, gliding across the floor as he willed himself to be patient for the moment, the nasty grin widened.

‘ _Isabelle Izayoi_ . . .’

At least she was making things interesting. He was quite looking forward to teaching her exactly what it meant to toy with Alastair Gregory . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“So Mamoruzen decided that Akira wasn’t good enough for me, and he threatened to beat the snot out of him.”

Griffin grunted, pushing a low hanging tree branch out of the way as they ambled along the path that meandered through the trees. “Was he?”

“Was he what?”

Rolling his eyes, he let go of the branch and jammed his hand into his pocket. “Good enough for you.”

Isabelle laughed, slipping her hand under Griffin’s elbow to rest it on his bicep. “I was in primary school,” she complained. “He just wanted to share my lunch box with me.”

“Little girls shouldn’t be sharing their lunch boxes with little boys,” Griffin remarked, glowering at the tired snow underfoot.

“We-e-ell,” she drawled, casting him an almost shy smile, “haven’t you ever shared a little girl’s lunch box?”

He snorted but couldn’t help the redness that crept into his features. “Does it count when she’s four and on a field trip to the aviary?”

She giggled. “Sounds like the best kind,” she told him. “Did she give you one of her pudding cups?”

Why, oh why did she have the innate ability to make the most innocent question sound like something entirely different?

“Yes, she did,” he admitted.

She really laughed at that, throwing her head back and giving a deep belly laugh—one that rumbled straight through him with more power than the softest caress. Leaning heavily on his arm, she swung around to bury her face against his chest as she continued to laugh, and despite the acute embarrassment that she always seemed to inspire in him, he couldn’t help but chuckle.

Her laughter died away, faded like a summer breeze, and she leaned back, her eyes bright, her cheeks kissed with the barest hint of color, and while she wasn’t smiling, her very being seemed to radiate. “Oh . . .” she breathed, staring up at him with unabashed emotion as his smile faltered.

“W-What?” he mumbled, all too aware of the intensity of her gaze on him.

“Your smile,” she whispered, her lips twitching, a tender expression illuminating her face. “I want you to do that more often.”

Her answer took him aback. In fact, he was so stunned that he wasn’t sure exactly what to say. Standing there in the late afternoon sunshine that filtered through the spiderwebbing of tree branches overhead, he wasn’t entirely certain how to interpret the conflicting emotions that she brought out of him, and then he realized . . .

Winter still clung to the landscape, hanging on with the tenacity of the angels though there was a marked warmth: the approach of spring that was whispering—just whispering, and he knew that in the days to come, that warmth would grow and spread, and . . . and those feelings that he was afraid to define—the ones that he felt whispering to him in much the same way—they would mirror that growth, wouldn’t they? The feelings that he’d tried to deny . . . Isabelle was his springtime, and maybe the winter had lasted just a little too long . . .

She braced herself on his shoulders, pushed herself up to kiss his cheek, and her smile was back—a tender, gentle thing. “I want to make you smile every day,” she vowed.

He didn’t know what to say to that, either, but the hope he saw in her face was enough to draw on the same emotion. “Will you?” he murmured, wondering deep down how it could be that she could make him want the same things, too.

Nodding slowly, she bit her lip. “I’ll try.”

The wind lifted her hair, tossed it into her face, and Griffin swallowed hard, reaching out to catch her hair, to hook it behind her ear.

“I’d share my pudding cup with you,” she joked.

“W-Would you?”

She nodded then sighed, turning away as she started walking once more. “Yes,” she said with a soft giggle. “I would.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Laissez-faire_** _: French phrase meaning "let do_ ".
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final Thought from Gavin_** :  
>  _… Hunted …?_


	57. Loss

Griffin stopped short as he entered the bedroom, only to be hit with a balled-up sheet right in the face. “What was that for?” he asked dryly, slapping the sheet away and pinning Isabelle with a marked frown.

She giggled, shaking out a fresh one and spreading it over the mattress. “Sorry,” she apologized, sounding anything but contrite. “I was just changing these.”

“You’re changing the sheets now?” he muttered, arching an eyebrow.

“I figured I could toss them into the washer before we leave, and they’ll be ready for the dryer by the time we get back.”

Shaking his head, he swiped up the sheets and turned on his heel. “All right, but hurry up. The vet’s clinic closes early on Friday night.”

Hiding an amused smile, Isabelle made quick work of smoothing the fitted sheet over the mattress cover. It wasn’t surprising that he knew the clinic’s hours. The man was methodical to a fault, and he’d very likely called ahead to make sure that Dr. Brandon would be in when they got there with Froofie.

He just needed to go in for a checkup, and while he still had a lot of mending to do, he was growing a little stronger every day. Earlier, she’d caught him creeping a few inches to his water bowl, and she figured that was a really good sign.

To be honest, Griffin had been a bit edgy all day, and while she knew that part of it had to do with the dog’s checkup, she wasn’t entirely certain that it was the only reason. More than once, she’d watched as he’d paced around the house, pausing by the windows to stare outside at the familiar surroundings. It was almost as though he expected someone or something . . .

She’d spent the better part of the morning making calls in an effort to procure both laboratory space as well as feeling out potential candidates for donating blood for the research. Her boss at the clinic had offered to let her use the lab there during the weekends and after office hours. Understanding that it was for some kind of youkai research, he hadn’t asked many questions, and in a roundabout way, he’d even offered to help her out in whatever capacity she’d require—a great thing since he was also youkai, and he’d be a perfect candidate for collection.

And she hadn’t been able to resist teasing Griffin just a little, either. He was getting better about it, she had to admit.

“ _Hey, big guy. Care to help me out?_ ”

 _Without lowering the newspaper he was reading, Griffin grunted something unintelligible_.

“ _Would you be willing to donate some DNA to the project?” she said, tapping her claws on the desk_.

 _That got his attention easily enough. Peering up from the paper, he shot her a glance full of trepidation. “DNA?” he echoed_.

 _She nodded. “Yes. Just a small sample_. . .”

“ _A sample? Of DNA_ _. . . What kind of . . . sample . . .?_ ”

 _She didn’t miss the marked reddening of his cheeks, and she laughed. “I could strip for you if that would help . . . or I could get you some porn. I’d imagine that Evan has some lying around. He might have even left some in his room at Grandma and Grandpa’s house_ . . .”

“ _You’re not—I’m not—you don’t need_ —damn it!” _he blustered, his face growing redder by the second_.

 _Her laughter spilled out and grew louder when he rather unceremoniously shoved her off his desk. “You’re right; I’m not asking for your semen. A little bit of blood would do,” she said between fits of giggles_.

He refused to speak to her again for nearly three hours.

She smiled to herself as she spread the coverlet over the bed and stepped back to survey her work. She didn’t even try to delude herself into thinking that the battle was won, but she had to admit that she was almost positive now that she would be victorious in the end.

He really was coming around, and she’d figured something else out, too. Griffin really liked to cuddle, and while he’d always grumble and complain whenever she tried to get him to cooperate, he gave in every time, hesitantly wrapping his arms around her and holding her close as she dozed off or as she savored the absolute feeling of closeness that passed between them at those times. Though she doubted that he’d ever admit to it, she knew intuitively that it was something that he needed as much as she did.

That was all right, too, wasn’t it? Even though he wasn’t a poet or an artist, even though he couldn’t quite give voice to the emotions he was feeling, she knew deep down. It was there in the gruff yet sweet way that he took care of her, there in the quiet sighs and the brush of his youki on hers. All she wanted—the only thing she wanted—was to make him understand how very much he still had left to offer, and he would understand eventually.

It was thoughts like those that slowed her down when all she wanted was to crawl into him and never let him go, when his very proximity made her remember that one shared night. In the darkness, the stillness, it had been wonderful, and yet she held back. As much as she wanted him, wanted to show him how much she loved him, she wanted him to feel it, too; wanted him to want her on his terms, in his time. It was enough for now that he was slowly and a little reluctantly letting his guard down. She could wait for something beautiful, couldn’t she?

“We don’t have all day, Isabelle,” Griffin’s voice echoed through the house.

She laughed softly and hurried out of the bedroom, humming a low song under her breath.

Griffin was something special, and this time . . .

This time she was going to do things his way, even if the waiting killed her.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Sucking in a sharp breath, Gavin’s eyes flashed open wide when Jillian jumped on him with a happy sigh and a million kisses all over his face. “Gavvie, Gavvie, Gavvie, Gavvie, I missed you!” she breathed.

“J-Jilli?” he stammered, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Of course it’s me, silly! Who else would it be? Wait! Don’t answer that . . . What’s her name, and what does she smell like?”

He chuckled at the deep intonation—a miserable impression of some of the more twisted male members of her family. His laughter, however, had a hollow-ish sound, and she pushed herself up on her elbows to blink at him. “What’s wrong?” she asked without preamble.

Pushing himself up on his elbows, he kissed her quickly and flopped back, pulling her down to cuddle her against his chest. “You just get in?” he asked, ignoring her question as he closed his eyes again.

“Yes,” she allowed.

“Good trip?”

“Ye-es . . .” she drawled. “Don’t think I don’t know that you’re hiding something.”

He grimaced then heaved a sigh. He’d have rather had this discussion after getting a few more hours’ sleep, especially since he and Cain had just gotten home about four hours ago, themselves, and while Gavin had been dead tired, he’d still taken a shower and shaved before finally dropping into bed in the room that he’d always slept in whenever he was staying with the Zelig family. Staring into Jillian’s concerned eyes, though, he let out a deep breath and sat up. “I, uh . . . I . . . lied to you,” he admitted quietly, his gaze skittering away as his cheeks flushed as a fresh wash of guilt rose to choke him.

She shook her head, her eyes darkening in complete confusion. “What do you . . . mean?” she asked.

“I went to Australia. I went to find Avis.”

Silence greeted his admission. Gavin could feel the upset in her aura but didn’t look to verify it. Rubbing his face, he turned his scowl toward the window—toward the sunshine that was growing stronger with every passing minute as the sun rose higher in the bright morning sky.

“And?” she finally prompted, her voice low, husky, as though she were trying to repress some sort of emotion.

“And,” Gavin said slowly, wishing that he didn’t have to tell her what he knew but knowing deep down that she deserved to hear it. “I found him . . . He . . .” trailing off with a grimace, he reached out, pulled her close against his side. “He’s dead.”

“W-What?” she breathed, her youki spiking sharply, drawing in tight around her.

“I’m sorry, Jilli,” he told her, unable to do much more than to offer his strength, his support. “I’m sorry . . .”

“Wh . . .? _How?_ ”

Tightening his hold, he shook his head, kissed her hair in a vain effort to comfort her. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “They’re looking into it. Jilli . . .”

Slumping forward, she buried her face in her hands, choking back a quiet sob. Gavin winced. On some level, she’d viewed Avis as family, hadn’t she? The closest connection she had to her biological parents, and the loss she felt was akin to losing them all over again, only this time was worse, wasn’t it? This time she knew something about them, and that made all the difference . . .

“I’m sorry, Jilli,” he said, pulling her against his chest once more, rocking her, soothing her, wishing that he could do something—anything—to make her pain go away. “God, I’m sorry . . .”

In the end, all he could do was hold her for what seemed like forever as she cried. If he said he was sorry once, he said it a hundred times, and with every tear that fell from her eyes, he felt a part of himself die away. Maybe it was inevitable; the regret that assailed him. If he hadn’t gone there, she’d still be holding onto that fragile hope, and yet . . .

That hope was a malicious thing. It kept her wishing and hoping and thinking, and while she was mourning the loss of the answers that she might never have, maybe she could move on, too. Maybe she would realize that those answers wouldn’t change who she was nor would they validate her life, either. It was what she did with it that would be her legacy, and in the end, Gavin could only hope that he could retain the smiling, laughing woman he’d loved his entire life.

“Am I selfish, Gavin?” she whispered between choked breaths.

“What? No . . . Why would you think that?” he asked gently, smoothing her hair off her face when she leaned back to look up at him.

Shaking her head miserably, she wiped her eyes with a trembling hand. “A man dies, and all I can think is that I’ll never know . . . things . . .”

Letting out a sad little sigh, Gavin kissed her forehead and offered her a thin little smile. “Jilli, you know, right? Your biological parents are not who you are. They might have given you that . . . that pretty smile of yours, but Gin and Cain are the ones who taught you how to do it. They . . . they gave you the legs to stand on, but Gin and Cain caught you when whenever you fell. They gave you arms, but Gin and Cain hugged you until you learned to do that, too . . . Do you understand?”

She blinked quickly, her eyes glossing over with a fresh sheen of tears, but the smile that emerged, while precarious, was the brightest he’d seen in far too long. “You’re right,” she murmured, snuggling against him once more. “They did . . . Mama and Daddy . . . and you, Gavvie.”

“I love you, Jilli,” he said, his voice thick, choked by raw emotion.

“I love you, too, Gavvie . . . my best friend.”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“ _Damn_ them!”

Sweeping everything off his desk in a fit of rage, Alastair couldn’t staunch the menacing growl that escaped him as he dug his claws into the desktop in impotent anger.

“I apologize, my lord,” Kent Murphy said without blinking at the uncharacteristic show of frustration. His normally peaked face paling noticeably in the wake of the angry display, the unobtrusive mole-youkai seemed to shrink into himself in an effort to avoid any unwanted backlash. “But I _was_ able to crack the password.”

Striding across the study, Alastair spared a derisive snort but didn’t break his stride. “And that avails me absolutely nothing, doesn’t it?”

No, it didn’t, and that was more than enough to peeve him completely. To be so close then to have the research elude him once more was simply intolerable, and while Avis had alluded to the idea that the data would be encrypted, he hadn’t thought much of it, given that Avis had been wrong far too many times on the whole.

“I don’t recognize the language,” Murphy said with a frown as he looked over the scanned document.

Alastair slapped the laptop closed and snatched it off of Murphy’s lap. “You were only brought in to retrieve the password,” he reminded him, “and I trust you will forget anything you happened to see within that file.”

Nodding once at the unspoken but very definite threat, Murphy slowly got to his feet, smoothing back an errant lock of devil-black hair that had escaped the severe tightness of the low ponytail he sported. “If that is all you require, my lord?”

He uttered a terse growl; enough to allow the mole-youkai to make a hasty retreat, leaving Alastair alone in the stagnant room.

Drawing a deep breath designed to steady his untapped rage, he carefully, deliberately set the computer atop the cleared desk. First things first, then, and that was to figure out what language that contemptible Carradine had used to transcribe the research. Then it would only be a matter of time before he possessed what had been eluding him for far too long: the power and the wherewithal that he needed to see his master plan to fruition. Then they would see it, wouldn’t they? They would see the error borne of their complacence.

He’d considered it a long, long time, and for a while, he had let his hatred seethe in silence. There was a time when the great and powerful Sesshoumaru had openly despised those of mixed heritage, of humans and youkai and the atrocities that came from such an unholy union. When it came about that the great and terrible Inu no Taisho’s own son would betray the youkai by taking a human to mate and then flaunted his ‘heir’ before all of their kind, Alastair had decided that it simply could not be tolerated any longer. Proclaiming a hanyou to be the next Japanese tai-youkai was of little import to him. As far as Alastair was concerned, they could sully their line as much as they wanted. His pride of the motherland had been lost long ago, after all, but as the blood heir to that particular tai-youkai, the hanyou might one day be placed above all—the Inu no Taisho—and that was something that Alastair simply would not suffer.

‘ _Patience_ ,’ he told himself as he plotted his next move. ‘ _Good things come to those who wait_ . . .’

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“You look like you’re waiting for someone,” Isabelle murmured as she leaned in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest, watching as Griffin stood on the porch, his eyes sweeping over the familiar surroundings.

He grunted but didn’t turn to look at her. “Don’t be stupid,” he retorted.

“You have something on your mind,” she remarked quietly. “You think I can’t tell when you’re preoccupied?”

“I’m always a little restless this time of year,” he evaded. “I don’t like being cooped up all winter.”

She didn’t fully believe him, but she let it drop. The man was far too stubborn for his own good, wasn’t he? Pulling her sweater closer around her, she tugged the door closed and ambled toward him. “Did I tell you that I managed to get lab space?”

He shot her a quick glance, cheeks pinking just slightly when she slipped her arms around his waist, leaning heavily against his arm. “You’re ready for that?” he asked, opting to ignore the intrusion on his personal space, at least for the moment.

She nodded. “Just about. The research was pretty much completed, and they were ready to start a clinical trial. As long as there isn’t a problem reproducing the serum, then it shouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“Sounds a little too easy, if you ask me.”

Offering a shrug, she let her arms drop before sinking down on the top porch step. “Not really . . . Putting together a solid study to start with can be far more work. I mean, you have to analyze every little thing, even things that seem fairly inconsequential, plot out all the possible outcomes, both good and bad . . . It’s pretty involved, but they did all stuff when they were theorizing, to start with. Of course, there were a few more variables that occurred to me, too, and I’ve added them to my notes, but as long as a few things are avoided as a precaution, it shouldn’t affect the overall outcome.”

Grimacing, he slowly lowered himself onto the step beside her. “What if it doesn’t work?” he asked mildly.

Casting him a sidelong glance, she sighed. “In best case, if it doesn’t work, then hanyou will be in no worse condition.”

“In worst?”

She pondered that, considering the things she’d read—the parts of the research that she’d questioned already. “There shouldn’t be a huge risk. After all, everything will be carefully controlled, and while it may be possible to administer the dosage yourself one day, for now it would have to be done in a clinical setting.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” he accused mildly.

She smiled. “No, I’m not. In worst case, it might result in accidentally triggering the youkai response, but that shouldn’t be a problem. I mean, there would have to be a really _severe_ offset of the youkai versus the human blood for that to happen, and even then, it’s more comparable to the problems that might result from any transplant or transfusion in a human. If the body views the serum as a threat, then it might start to fight against itself, but given the dosage in the actual inoculation, that shouldn’t be an issue, even if one tried to overdose on purpose.”

“But aren’t you offsetting the balance by giving the shots on the day when the youkai blood is highest?” he pressed.

She shrugged—not necessarily indicating indifference; more of a halfway response between the two extremes. “Yes and no . . . if the blood were lower, then the ratio is bound to be off, too. It’s easier to control the result if the shot is given on the highest day so that the serum will assimilate fastest.”

He scowled at the bare patches of pavement where the snow had melted away during the course of the day. “No, that’s wrong, too . . . Just injecting youkai DNA isn’t going to solve the problem.”

“You don’t think so?” she parried.

He shrugged. “There needs to be a safeguard; a way of tempering the youkai part of the DNA. Think about it: youkai DNA isn’t all that stable to start with, is it? I mean, if a youkai is able to transform into a higher form, then it has to mean that their bodies aren’t like humans, so to apply that sort of logic is a little . . . careless, don’t you think?”

She frowned. She hadn’t considered that, but what Griffin said . . . it made perfect sense. “You know, I can’t lose myself to my youkai blood,” she ventured at length. “Grandma’s blood protects us.”

“Because she’s a miko, you mean?”

She nodded. “When he was young, my uncle, Ryomaru got into a really bad fight with some youkai. He was pretty severely beaten before anyone got there to help him, but he never lost himself, either. Papa said that he’s sure that it’s because of Grandma’s miko blood.”

Griffin pondered that for a moment then shook his head. “So can you create a serum with your grandmother’s help?”

“You mean, use her blood to temper the youkai blood?”

“Something like that. It’d stabilize the mix, wouldn’t it?”

She nodded slowly, biting her lip as she considered it. True, that part of the research had always bothered her. The curious mix was precarious enough between a hanyou’s youkai and human sides, and she’d wondered more than once whether the balance would be offset by introducing any level of youkai DNA to their systems, and what Griffin said had made complete and perfect sense.

“You know, you’d make a damn good researcher,” she pointed out, nudging him with her shoulder as a playful smile surfaced on her lips.

He snorted and rolled his eyes. “I’m just a teacher of ancient languages,” he maintained.

“I’ll give Papa a call later—tell him what you’ve said.”

He nodded but didn’t speak, staring off over the top of the trees at the lengthening shadows of the coming evening. The expression on his face was sad, almost like he was recalling something that may not have been a bad memory but did have the power to hurt him. Brown eyes bright, reflecting the late afternoon sunshine, he clenched his jaw for just a moment, his hair ruffled by the invisible fingers of the soothing late March breeze.

“A penny for your thoughts,” she murmured, smiling slightly at the silly little expression.

He blinked and shot her a quick glance then shrugged offhandedly. “Not worth a penny,” he allowed.

“I don’t know,” she said with a soft sigh then smiled just a little bit. “If it’s enough to make you look like that, then I’d say it’s worth more than just a penny.”

Shaking his head, he leaned forward, pressing his fingertips together between his spread knees. “This research,” he finally said slowly, haltingly, as though he didn’t want to talk about it. “Maybe . . . maybe you ought to let your father finish it.”

Frowning as she turned her head to eye him carefully, she sucked in her cheek, assessing his silent profile as she struggled to understand exactly what he was thinking. “Why?”

“It’s . . .” he trailed off and cleared his throat but didn’t look at her. “It’s a lot of work,” he muttered, shaking his head, “and it’s big—you said so, yourself. Your dad . . . he’s done this sort of thing lots of times, right? You can do it, sure, but . . .” Heaving a sigh, he lifted a hand, palm-side up, as though he were searching for the right words floating in the air. “I’m not trying to say that you _can’t_ do it,” he finally said. “I just don’t know if you _should_.”

She sighed, too, digesting his words before posing the question she’d been meaning to ask him. “You said that you’ve seen a hanyou lose control before, right?”

He blinked but nodded. “Yes.”

“Tell me what happened?” she prompted gently.

Resting his elbow on his knee, he rested his chin against his balled-up fist, his eyes glossing over, looking back into a time that Isabelle didn’t really comprehend. “Attean had a brother—Miquois,” he said, his voice dropping to a breath above a whisper. “I didn’t know him very well; only met him a few times. He was, um, younger than Attean, and a little scrawny thing. There was this, uh, huge storm that blew down from the north. Biggest blizzard I ever saw, just . . . everywhere . . .” Lifting his head, he scowled at the sky for a long time, watching as the clouds drifted across the horizon. “He was on his way back. The tribe’s chief had sent him to deliver a message, and he . . . Well, he just wanted to be accepted, you know?”

She nodded without a word, frowning slightly as she waited for him to go on. He didn’t seem sad, exactly; more like reconciled to what had happened.

Griffin let out a deep breath and ducked his chin, scowling at his hands for a moment before turning his head to look at her. “Anyway, I don’t know what happened to him to start with. Attean and I were outside . . . I think we were chopping wood or something, but the wind—you know, you can smell things; even things miles away if the wind is just right. Attean smelled his blood, and we went to find him.” Tapping his palms together, he licked his lips, his eyebrows drawing together in a confused sort of expression. “He was . . . torn up. The skin on his arm was shredded; his chest was . . . ripped wide open, and I remember . . . his, uh . . .” Swallowing hard, he waved his hand in front of his face. “His eyes . . . they were red—not red, but, like . . . crimson, and he . . . he just . . .”

Isabelle bit her lip. Griffin wasn’t having difficulty talking, she knew. No, he was having difficulty in choosing the words that he wanted to use to explain everything to her . . . Laying a hand on his arm, she offered him a gentle squeeze of encouragement, and he sighed.

“Attean tried to talk to him. Tried to tell him that he needed to calm down, and he—Miquois—attacked us. Just kept fighting and fighting and . . . and Attean kept trying to talk to him—make him understand that he was destroying himself. Attean was covered with Miquois’s blood. The place reeked—just reeked, and . . . and this little girl came walking up. She had a bucket for water, I guess, and Miquois grabbed her . . . tore her up and ran off. We caught up with him right after he’d cut down her family.”

Rubbing his eyes, he shook his head, his eyes telling her plainly that he still didn’t quite understand all that had happened on that day. “Attean . . . he had to kill him—his own brother—because the decent part of him was already dead.”

She digested that in silence, her hand idly rubbing his arm. He still felt bad for the friend he hadn’t been able to help, didn’t he? He understood, of course, that what had happened couldn’t be changed, and even if it could have been, it didn’t really matter now. A hanyou who lost himself to his youkai blood couldn’t be controlled or reasoned with, and while she’d heard the stories about her grandfather, she also knew that he’d admitted that if he hadn’t learned to control his youkai blood, he might have died a long time ago, too. In her mind’s eye, she could see what Griffin had told her, and she couldn’t help the absolute trill of trepidation that raced down her spine. “That’s why, you know,” she said, breaking the stony silence that had fallen. “That’s why I want to do this.”

“I know,” he said, his voice full of regret.

She shook her head slowly, casting him a sad sort of look that she hoped he understood. “What you saw . . . I don’t want that to happen again. I can do this—I _know_ I can.”

He nodded once then heaved a sigh. “That’s not it,” he growled, scuffing his toe against the step.

“Then tell me what it is,” she challenged softly.

Ducking his chin a little lower, raking his hands through his hair, he grimaced again. “It’s the world,” he said at length. “Every time you see something like that—every time you try to make sense of something that has no rhyme or reason . . . it changes you, and those changes . . .”

Smiling sadly, she reached out, pushed the bangs out of his face, cradled his cheek in her hand. “Life _is_ change, Griffin.”

“I . . . I know,” he said, his eyes taking on a haunted sort of look—the one she’d seen before, and yet there was an underlying hint of something else there, too: something brighter and infinitely more beautiful.

“I can do this,” she repeated, her conviction sharpening her words.

He closed his eyes for a moment then jerked his head once in a nod. “Yes,” he allowed. “I’m sure you can.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _He’s just so cute_ …


	58. Hypothesis

: _July 12, 2065_ :

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Narrowing her eyes as she peered into the microscope, Isabelle worried at her lower lip as she studied the sample. “Zoom times ten,” she said, the clarity of her voice a little shocking in the quiet lab.

The microscope hummed quietly as the order was carried out, and she shifted her gaze to the side, studying the stills she’d procured from the original series of samples.

There was a distinct change in the structure of the tissue—an even more remarkable one than there had been in the last batch of samples, and everything looked good. The analysis she was doing on the DNA structure would prove whether or not the differences were the ones she was after, but she couldn’t help the triumphant little smile that graced her lips.

“You ready to go home yet?” Griffin asked, rubbing his eyes as he stifled a yawn with the back of his hand.

She nodded absently but didn’t look up from the microscope as she jotted notes at the same time. “Yeah, just a minute.”

He grunted and leaned against a lab table, patiently waiting for her to finish up.

She’d wanted to stop by to check up on the samples after they’d finished having dinner, not that he’d minded. It never ceased to surprise him, the tenacity with which she devoted herself to the project. Certainly, he’d known that she had a serious side, but when she tended to laugh and joke more often than not, it was easy to forget that she could be so dedicated.

He sighed and shook his head, pushing away from the table and shuffling across the floor. That wasn’t entirely fair, was it? No, he knew damn well that she was committed to making sure that the research was completed. When she wasn’t picking at him, she had her nose buried in her notes, and often he had to say her name a few times before she would deign to notice that she wasn’t alone.

It had been nearly four months since he’d finished translating the research—nearly four months since her home had been broken into—and in those months, she’d made remarkable progress.

She’d determined that she should reproduce the trials that the Carradine brothers had recorded in the beginning, and in much less time than he’d have thought possible, she’d managed to do exactly that. Sure, he knew from having translated the work that Carl Carradine had been meticulous about writing down every little thing, every little measurement, every ratio that she’d needed, to the point that she’d simply had to gather the necessary ingredients, as it were.

He wrinkled his nose and crossed his arms, leaning against a table again to wait. She couldn’t finish the damned research fast enough, as far as he was concerned. He could feel it in the air, the danger that grew steadily more ominous, like a storm cloud rising in the east over the ocean: one that rolled in so quickly that it could easily drop a few sprinkles of rain or break wide open, barraging the coast for days at a time. It was calm— _too_ calm. As far as he knew, either Alastair Gregory hadn’t figured out that Isabelle had the research or he hadn’t been able to track her down yet, but with every day that passed unremarked, the more Griffin couldn’t help but worry.

It was enough to drive him mad—certainly more than enough to irritate the hell out of him. He’d had trouble sleeping before, sure, but he’d be lying if he said that he got more than an hour or two of sleep at night these days. Jerking awake at the slightest noise, constantly checking and double checking doors and windows, he could feel the paranoia creeping in around him, and yet he couldn’t let it go, either. If he did—if Isabelle ended up in danger because of a lapse in his judgment . . .

He snorted inwardly and shook his head. No one would ever hurt her, damn it, not as long as he drew breath . . . ‘ _Never_.’

“Okay, big guy,” Isabelle said, her soft voice cutting through his reverie. Gathering a stack of micro-images, she shot him a big smile as she carefully stuck the pictures into the manila file.

“Got your slides?” he asked, pushing away from the counter to take the file from her before heading for the door that led into the decontamination room.

She held up the small digital device to show him then stuck it into the attaché case along with the file of pictures. “Yep.”

“You’d better appreciate this,” he mumbled, setting the case aside when they reached the locker room to methodically strip off the lab suit that he had to wear in order to sit with her while she worked on the research.

“But you’re so damn cute in the lab gear,” she replied with a saucy grin.

Griffin snorted and shook his head, chucking the clothes toward the laundry hamper as he tugged the sterile cap off his head and dropped it into the trash can. “You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are,” he pointed out. “Give me your keys.”

She dropped the car keys into his free hand before stooping over to pull the rubber booties off her feet. “Yep.”

“I suppose you’re going to fall asleep going over that stuff?” he grumbled.

“Of course not,” she said, waving her hand dismissively.

He snorted since she had done exactly that more often than not in the couple of months since she’d started working with the samples.

“I wake up in bed every morning, don’t I?” she challenged, lifting an eyebrow as she peered over her shoulder before turning off the locker room lights.

That didn’t even deserve a response, as far as he was concerned. The reason she woke up in bed was, more often than not, because he carried her there long after she’d passed out on the sofa or on the dining room table or on his desk—wherever she happened to fall asleep. “Get a move on, will you?” he mumbled instead.

“I offered to come in alone, you know, so you can’t complain,” she pointed out reasonably. “If you really think I’m going to run off with someone else, you’re sadly mistaken.”

Snorting loudly as a tell-tale flush crept over his skin, Griffin shook his head and tried to put on a tough front. “I should get so lucky.”

She laughed outright at him, testing the door to make sure that it was locked before leaning up to kiss his cheek. “You’d be lost without me,” she informed him as she slipped her hand under his arm and gave him a quick squeeze.

“Hardly.   Be jumping for joy, more like.”

Her laughter escalated as they navigated the murky darkness. A couple safety lights glowed here and there, but the watery brightness was entirely undermined by the starless night outside, leaving everything in the blackest of shadows. Even the halogen streetlamp just outside the clinic did nothing to disburse the unsettling night. The meager shaft of light fell straight to the ground, illuminating little more than the barest circle, misshapen where it tumbled off the sidewalk onto the asphalt street below.

Isabelle’s hideously yellow car beeped softly as Griffin held out the keychain, unlocking the doors via the remote. The headlights blinked in welcome.

Stopping on the passenger side of the car long enough to open the door and deposit her things behind the seat, he stepped back, waiting while she got into the vehicle. She shot him a bright smile as he pushed the door closed, and he couldn’t help the minute he spared to survey the surroundings before striding around the car and slipping in behind the steering wheel.

There was nothing amiss, was there? Of course there wasn’t. There never seemed to be. Still, he couldn’t help the trepidation that crept up his spine every time he thought about that damnable research and Isabelle’s involvement with it. It was more of a feeling than anything concrete, the innate knowledge that something was closing in, and while every day the completion of the project drew a little bit closer, it wouldn’t be done fast enough to suit Griffin; not by a long shot . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Alastair tapped his claws against the thin black plastic techfile as he read through the fax he’d just received from the man he’d asked to take a look at the research notes.

‘ _The files seem to be written in a strange Abenaki dialect_ ,’ it read, ‘ _or to be more precise, a few of them. As far as I know, there aren’t many who can accurately translate the text, and there are only a couple of people who might be able to translate parts of it. In best case, it could take a few years to get a readable translation completed. Please advise_.’

‘ _Unacceptable!_ ’ he growled, crumpling the flimsy paper in his hand, his face contorting in a cold mask of impotent rage. He would not—would not—accept the idea that it could take that long. It was completely inconceivable.

It was one thing after another, wasn’t it, never mind that he knew very well that if he was having trouble with the translations that Zelig was, as well. That knowledge appeased him just a little—not much, but enough to take the edge off of his mounting rage.

Drawing a deep, steadying breath, he flexed his claws and shifted his gaze to the techfile. He’d transferred the research file onto the portable computer before destroying the laptop.

“Call Bentley,” he said.

The system beeped in acknowledgement of his directive, and he waited as the dulcet tones of the dialing phone cut through the quiet.

Ernie Bentley answered on the fourth ring, his voice a bit winded, as though he’d had to run to reach the telephone. “Bentley here.”

“I need you to do something for me, Bentley,” he remarked in a carefully controlled tone—as close to humble as Alastair Gregory ever was, and entirely arrogant despite the effort.

Bentley didn’t respond right away. Alastair could hear him breathe. “My lord Gregory . . . What do you need?” he asked carefully, almost hesitantly, and completely noncommittally.

“I need someone who is fluent in Abenaki and languages of the like,” Alastair stated without preamble.

“Abenaki?” he echoed, unable to keep the hint of surprise out of his tone. “As in, Native American?”

“That’s right,” he went on smoothly. “I trust you can supply me with a name?”

Bentley cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the task he was being asked to fulfill. “I am to assume that you need someone with a bit more than a base knowledge of the language, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“Understood, understood . . . do you, um, have a time frame you’re looking to meet?”

Alastair’s eyes narrowed dangerously though Bentley didn’t see the expression. “As quickly as possible, of course,” he said, careful to keep his tone from betraying his feeling that he needed to hurry. “I would . . . _appreciate_ if you would make this your absolute priority.”

Bentley sighed. “Certainly, my lord,” he replied after a pregnant pause. “I’ll get to work on it right away.”

“Excellent,” Alastair murmured. “I shall anticipate your call.”

Pressing the button on the desk panel that ended the conversation, he let his claws rake over the desktop as he sauntered away. ‘ _Patience_ ,’ he told himself, struggling to control his lingering unrest. It would be difficult, surely, but the ends would justify the means, wouldn’t they?

The reward was close enough to taste. Just a little more time . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Looking over the notes she’d scrawled into the journal as she’d studied the slides, absently smoothing her eyebrow with a fingertip.

“I see what you mean.”

“Hmm,” she intoned without looking up from the notes. Her father was on the speaker phone, and he’d been looking over the slides she’d sent him. “The overall structure has been drastically reinforced . . . I just hesitate to pronounce the serum complete so quickly.”

Kichiro sighed, deliberating Isabelle’s words in companionable silence from half a world away. “Repeat the sample trial a couple of times,” he said at length. “If you get the same results then—the _exact_ same result—then I’d say you’re ready to run a preliminary test.”

“If I can find a hanyou I can test it on,” she mumbled, letting the journal fall from her hand onto the coffee table with a dull thump. The cell phone jumped upon impact, and she steadied it, careful not to hit the button that would end the intercom connection. “I think that’s easier said than done.”

“Yeah,” he agreed tonelessly, understanding her ultimate dilemma. “If worse comes to worse, you could talk to Sesshoumaru. He might have someone who would be willing to help out.”

Wrinkling her nose, she slowly shook her head, leaning back when Griffin stuck a steaming mug of tea under her nose. Telegraphing him a wan smile, she accepted the drink with both hands. “I’d just have to test it to make certain there are no adverse side-effects,” she said.

“Yeah, well, re-run the trials first,” Kichiro maintained. “Make sure that everything is consistent before you worry about testing.”

“I know,” she said with a sigh, her voice muffled slightly by the mug as she sipped the honey-sweetened tea. The sofa sagged slightly when Griffin sat down next to her. Sparing a moment to shoot her a thoughtful scowl, he shook open the newspaper and disappeared from view. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“You do that,” Kichiro replied. She could hear the smile in his voice. “You can do this, you know. You’re my daughter, and _my_ daughters are fucking brilliant.”

Isabelle laughed when Griffin snorted indelicately. “I love you, Papa,” she said, leaning forward to pick up the cell phone.

“Love you, too, Baby.”

The line went dead, and Isabelle clicked off the device, snapping it closed against the heel of her hand, pondering the conversation that had just ended. Kichiro was right. Procuring the samples had been simple enough. Working through the clinic, she was able to garner support from her youkai boss, and he’d assisted in collecting them, making use of his network of associates who trusted him without being informed as to the exact nature of the ongoing research. Still, being able to find one hanyou willing to test the preliminary serum was a little more complicated. After all, nothing of this magnitude had been tried before, and while the potential gain was huge, so was the initial risk involved. Humans would have been able to conduct their tests on creatures with similar enough genetic structures, but there wasn’t a beast close enough for that to be a feasible idea when it involved youkai or hanyou.

Heaving a sigh as she set aside the tea mug and unplugged the portable slide from the access port on her cell phone, she flopped back against the sofa. Scrolling through the digital images she’d captured from the microscope, she chewed on her bottom lip, narrowing her eyes in concentration.

“Send your father those slides?” Griffin asked without looking up from his newspaper.

“Yeah,” she replied absently. “He thought it all looked good, too.”

He grunted noncommittally.

Pressing the button to turn off the device, she leaned forward far enough to drop it onto the coffee table. “Put that paper down, will you?” she chided, tapping the front page with her claws.

“Get your own, woman,” he grumbled, sparing a moment to peer around the edge at her. Chin ducked and eyes glowing, he looked completely suspicious of her motives.

“I don’t want your newspaper, Dr. G.”

His eyes narrowed. “So what _do_ you want?”

She flashed him a smile. “Oh, scoring a little cuddle-time would be all right,” she drawled.

He snorted indelicately, cheeks pinking as he shook out the paper and buried himself behind it once more. “Jezebel,” he mumbled.

With a giggle, she reached out, neatly snagging the paper and folding it before dropping it onto the coffee table. “You’re so cute when you blush,” she quipped, snuggling against his chest with a contented little sigh.

“I swear you’re a leech,” he pointed out, unable to help the flush that darkened though he grudgingly slipped an arm around her.

Leaning up to kiss his chin playfully, she laughed again. “But you like it,” she shot back with a saucy grin.

“Debatable,” he maintained stubbornly. “Don’t crush me.”

“I like this,” she murmured, laying her cheek against his chest, closing her eyes as she breathed in the scent of him: warm, strong, vibrant—everything that was Griffin. She loved the feeling of complete and total security that he gave her and the underlying sense of wonder that he never failed to inspire in her.

“Hmph. At least one of us does.”

“You don’t like it?” she teased.

He snorted again, smashing her head against his chest when she started to tilt her head back to look at him. “Of course I don’t,” he lied. “At least it keeps you from mauling Charlie.”

She snuggled closer. “So,” she said at length. “Are you going to tell me why you’ve been so preoccupied lately?”

“I haven’t been,” he contradicted, shifting slightly, as though he were trying to make himself more comfortable.

“You have,” she corrected gently. “I just pretend not to notice.”

“You’re paranoid,” he remarked mildly.

She didn’t miss the hint of discomfort in his tone. He sounded like he was trying to reassure her; trying to pretend that everything was right as rain.

‘ _Or maybe_ ,’ her youkai whispered quietly, ‘ _maybe he’s trying to reassure himself of that_.’

‘ _But why? Reassure himself of what?_ ’

Heaving a sigh, her youkai voice seemed irritated when it spoke again. ‘ _Listen, you. You know damn well that he’s still struggling to come to terms with the idea that you really want to be with him—and you’ve been so busy of late that you haven’t really thought give him that reassurance, have you?_ ’

She winced. She hadn’t thought of it that way. “Griffin?”

“What?”

She smiled at his grumbled question. “Tell me, how was your meeting today?”

That earned her a sigh, and she felt him shrug. “Same old thing,” he said in a rather bored tone. “Don’t know why those meetings are mandatory when they just repeat the same information every year.”

He’d said as much before he’d left this morning for the faculty meeting at the university. All of the linguistics professors were required to attend—something that had irritated the surly old bear. After reminding her that she’d better let him know if she thought to leave the house, he’d glowered at her stubbornly as though daring her to disobey him.

Of course she’d simply laughed at him, crossing her ankles and leaning against the dining room table with the flannel shirt she’d confiscated from his closet weeks ago billowing around her thighs. Back warmed by the sunshine pouring through the windows behind her, she laughed just a little harder when his cheeks pinked up. He snorted but didn’t comment, turning on his heel and stomping away.

“Sorry to hear that,” she murmured, her tone anything but contrite.

“Yeah, well, they did say that Will Hastings is retiring at the end of next year.”

She pushed herself up, her eyebrows lifting of their own accord. “Professor Hastings? He still teaches there? He’s older than the hills, isn’t he?”

“I’m older than he is,” Griffin grumped.

Isabelle kissed his cheek in an effort to negate the sting of her words. “Yeah, but you don’t look it. _He_ does.”

“He’s _human_.”

“Are they going to offer you the head of languages position?” she teased.

That earned her a dark look. “I hope not,” he replied. “Even if they did, I wouldn’t take it. Besides, Langtree wants it, and he can have it, for all I care. Thought he was going to wet himself when Hastings made the announcement.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at the absolute disgust writ on Griffin’s features. “True as that may be, you have to admit, you’d make one hell of a head of languages,” she remarked, idly kissing the corners of his lips.

“Keep—your—lips—to—your—self,” he mumbled between her kisses.

“But I’d much rather share with you, and besides: Mama and Papa always said that sharing is good,” she pointed out.

He snorted. “We’ve discussed that before. You don’t know the meaning of the word ‘good’.”

“I do,” she quipped lightly, kissed the tip of his nose. “Besides that, if I can’t show affection to my mate, then who can I show it to?”

“Don’t recall saying anything about that,” he grumped as he slipped his other arm around her waist.

“But you are.”

“Negotiable.”

“Absolutely not,” she insisted, gently kissing each of his eyelids in turn.

He swallowed hard. She could see his Adam’s apple bob almost nervously. “Y-you really don’t pay any attention to other people’s personal space, do you?”

“Mm, but your personal space is so much more inviting than mine is,” she retorted.

“Spoken like a true daughter of darkness,” he shot back dryly.

Isabelle laughed and snuggled against him once more, content to enjoy the feel of his hands rather timidly rubbing her back. “Am I really so bad?”

He snorted. “Worse.”

“But you put up with me, right?”

He shrugged. “It’s either that or turn you loose on the general population, and I don’t hate anyone _that_ much.”

Her laughter tumbled out of her, filling the quiet of the room with a certain warmth that only came with the sound. He was coming around, slowly but surely, and with every day that passed, he grew a little more comfortable with the affection that she so enjoyed lavishing on him.

As though he could read her thoughts, he grunted to let her know that he was supposedly just humoring her, but his arms tightened just the littlest bit, and she smiled.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _Silly old bear_ …


	59. The Initial Test

: _August 24, 2065_ :

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Adjusting her glasses, Isabelle flipped through the clipboard chart, double and triple checking her data before re-reading it all again.

The soft chime of the shaker drew her attention, and she set the board aside, tugging on a pair of chemical gloves before opening the unit and retrieving the tray of test tubes. Eyebrows knitting together as she carefully lifted one of the tubes, she shuffled toward the lab table.

After filling a syringe with the serum, she carefully squirted it into the tiny sterilized vial and set it in the analysis machine—an ultra high-tech bit of equipment that could break down the makeup of any given substance in a matter of minutes. As long as the ratios were preserved, there wouldn’t be any trouble at all.

This was her sixth batch of serum, identical in formula to the last three—the goal being consistency in the serum, itself. The tissue samples were all consistent, too—that wasn’t an issue. The main reason she was so concerned was because of the potential for instability, given the use of youkai genetic material. After lengthy discussion with her father regarding the idea of adding Kagome’s blood to balance out the mix, Kichiro had agreed that it would be a good idea, and to that end, she’d called her grandmother.

Kagome had been happy to help out with the project. Her grandfather, InuYasha wasn’t quite as receptive to the idea. Kagome had convinced him, though, when she’d reminded him of his own brush with danger, he’d relented, albeit rather ungraciously. Kichiro was of the opinion that they might later be able to devise a way to create the same effect without using Kagome’s blood, but that was something that they could start researching later, after the serum was perfected. Kagome had mentioned that perhaps she could imbue an object with her spiritual powers in much the same way that an Ofuda worked. The only problem was that Kagome was an intuitive miko, meaning that her abilities often stemmed from base reaction more than from being trained to control it, and while she had learned over time to modulate her powers, she’d never actually been taught how to infuse those same powers into another object. The theory was that if she were able to do so, it could then be used to purify another medium, such as the base of the serum, itself, instead of having to use Kagome’s blood every time.

But the addition of Kagome’s sample had achieved the desired results. The tissue samples had taken on a more consistent structure, and she was as sure as she could be that the serum would do exactly what it was supposed to do—at least, as sure as she could be without having actually tested it on a living being, that was . . .

The bell on the analysis machine rang, and Isabelle ripped off the feed readout, frowning as she carefully read over it. Everything was consistent with the original formula, and she uttered a terse little sound as a rather satisfied smile quirked her lips.

It was hard to believe that everything was finished—damn hard. After laboring over the research for so long, it was ready to be tested, and while she couldn’t help but feel a small surge of satisfaction, she knew that she still had quite a row to hoe. Everything looked good, of course, and she was sure that the theory would prove out in the end. Still, she couldn’t be completely positive that all the ratios were perfect considering. It was simple to get the same results in the controlled environment of a laboratory, but the percentage of the serum necessary to balance the youkai blood in hanyou was still likely to need tweaked.

No, the most pressing matter, as far as Isabelle was concerned, was the potential side-effects that the serum might have. It didn’t appear to have had any on the tissue she’d used to test it, but that didn’t mean that it wouldn’t when introduced to a live person.

A small frown creased her brow as she lifted a vial, as she stared into the seemingly innocent concoction. It wasn’t something that she was willing to test on just anyone to start with. She was almost positive that the serum wouldn’t have any truly negative effects overall, but it was that small doubt that plagued her.

“How is it?”

Isabelle let her arm drop as she turned to smile wanly at Griffin. Leaning in the doorway with his signature scowl in place, he didn’t look bored, per se, but he did seem a bit edgy. “Just fine,” she informed him.

“Good,” he muttered, pushing away from the door frame and shuffling into the lab.

“Did you get those papers graded?” she asked absently, turning back and carefully pouring the serum into amber glass bottles.

He grunted, stopping beside her, watching her thoughtfully. “So that’s it?”

Nodding, she pushed a rubber stopper onto the bottle and reached for the next one. “So it would seem.”

He considered that for a moment, his eyebrows drawing together into a thoughtful scowl. “So what’s next?”

She let out a deep breath, replacing the last test tube in the tray before picking it up to tote over to the chemical sink for a quick cleaning. “Normally, it’d be ready for the first clinical trial,” she allowed slowly, not surprised at all when Griffin followed her.

“You don’t sound too positive,” he pointed out gruffly.

Giving a little shrug, she set the tray in the sink and reached for the bottle of Kwik-Wash. “I’m sure it will work,” she said slowly, squirting a generous amount of the cleaning solution into the test tubes. “I wish there was a way to test it for potential risks first, without injecting it into someone. I mean, the results from the trials don’t indicate any such thing, but you can’t ever be positive, can you? Live tissue is still just tissue . . .”

Uttering a curt snort, Griffin took the tubes from her hands and dropped them into the rack beside the lab sink. “Part versus whole, you mean.”

Letting out a deep breath that lifted her bangs, she nodded slowly, carefully drying her hands on a thin white towel as Griffin picked up the tray and carried it over to the counter beside the sterilizing unit. “You could say that,” she said wanly.

“What about volunteers?” he asked though he looked like he wanted to ask something entirely different.

Isabelle shrugged, dropping the towel on the counter and shuffled over to slip the tray into the sterilizing unit. “I’ve got a few lined up, but I’d feel better if I ruled out any chance for severe reaction before I called them in.”

“You could test it out on that damned cousin of yours,” Griffin mumbled as she closed the door and set the timer.

She shook her head in confusion then smiled when she realized exactly which cousin he was talking about. “Mamoruzen, you mean?”

He nodded. “In worse case, I doubt anyone would miss him if he died.”

“Griffin!” she chided but couldn’t help laughing. “ _I’d_ miss him—well, I’d miss him a _little_ bit, and even then, he will be the next Japanese tai-youkai . . . Offing the crown prince? I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?”

“Acceptable loss,” Griffin grumbled, following Isabelle over to collect her things so they could leave for the night.

“He’s really not that bad,” she pointed out in a reasonable tone as she slung her purse strap over her shoulder while Griffin grabbed her attaché case.

He snorted indelicately, obviously disagreeing with her assessment. “Condescending little cub . . . Didn’t his parents teach him any manners at all?”

She did laugh at that since she had to agree with Griffin. Gunnar had stopped by a few days ago and had made no bones about telling Griffin that his home was entirely unacceptable because there wasn’t any security system installed. Griffin had narrowed his eyes on her cousin and informed him that he was sure that he could handle anything that might come up, and Gunnar, ass that he was, had simply cocked an eyebrow and replied that old men had no business fighting, if it came down to that. In the end, Isabelle had literally dragged Gunnar out of the house, upbraiding him for being rude and assuring her cousin that Griffin most certainly could handle things just fine. Gunnar had snorted and shook his head but hadn’t argued with her. Maybe he figured it simply wasn’t worth it. Either way, he’d left then, and Isabelle had been forced to coax Griffin out of the black mood Gunnar had left in his wake.

“They taught him manners enough,” she conceded as she flicked off the lights. “I swear to you, he’s really not as bad as you think.”

The look he shot her stated quite plainly that he didn’t believe it as he led her through the decontamination room into the locker area where he stripped off the sterile gown and tossed it into the laundry hamper before leaning against the wall to tug off the booties that he never failed to grumble about having to wear in the lab. “If you say so.”

Isabelle laughed and snatched the cap off his head. “There’s something entirely hot about a man in lab scrubs,” she teased. “Just seeing you in those makes me want to—”

His snort cut her off abruptly, and he turned away but not before she could discern the redness that had erupted under his skin. “You’re not normal,” he mumbled. “Are you finished here?”

Leaning in quickly to steal a kiss that earned her an entirely endearing red-faced scowl, Isabelle tweaked Griffin’s nose and reached for her attaché case. “Yes, I’m done,” she assured him.

“’Bout time,” he grouched, taking the case from her and lumbering toward the door.

Isabelle heaved a sigh but followed him. ‘ _One of these days, he’s going to admit that he likes my attention_ ,’ she told herself as she flicked off the lights and pulled the door closed.

‘ _Of course he will_ ,’ her youkai agreed though it seemed to Isabelle that the tone of voice was entirely placating.

‘ _He_ will,’ she insisted, smiling at the sound of her footsteps mingling with Griffin’s as they strode down the hallway toward the doors of the medical clinic.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“I’m sorry. I just can’t do it.”

Kichiro rolled to the side, heaving a long-suffering sigh as he dropped his forearm over his eyes.

Bellaniece sat up with a grimace then reached for the silk robe slung carelessly over the chair beside the bed. “I’m sorry,” she said again, her voice rising with her anxiety.

“You know, I’m still me,” he remarked rather acerbically.

“I know,” she said, her tone giving away her absolute upset. He didn’t have to look to know that she was probably wringing her hands. “I’m sorry,” she whispered for the third time.

“Don’t be sorry,” he muttered, rolling onto his side and forcing a wan smile solely for his mate’s benefit. “Come here.”

Bellaniece fussed with the thin strip of fabric that held her robe closed and shrugged offhandedly. “Well, that’s the thing, Kichiro,” she hedged, scooting back when he tried to reach for her. “I . . . I don’t think . . .” Wrinkling her nose, she shook her head. “It’s _weird_ ,” she blurted.

“. . . _Weird?_ ” he echoed incredulously, pushing himself up on his elbow as he frowned at his mate as though he were trying to ascertain whether or not she was telling the truth. “How so?”

She tried to smile as she tucked a long lock of golden bronze hair behind a delicate ear, but the smile didn’t light her sapphire blue eyes the way it normally did, either. “It’s just . . . I mean, you _look_ like you, but . . .”

“But . . .?” he prompted, struggling for a calm that he was far from feeling and knowing in the pit of his stomach that he really didn’t have anyone else to blame for it.

“Bu-u-ut,” she drawled, twisting her fingers together and turning her wrists outward in a decidedly nervous sort of way, “you don’t . . . _smell_ . . . like you . . .”

Heaving a sigh, Kichiro flopped onto his back and rubbed his eyes since he’d realized that it was something along those lines. “Well, that’s _good_ , then, isn’t it?” he surmised.

Bellaniece nodded once, the smile that surfaced on her beautiful face as contrived as he’d ever seen. “Of _course_.”

Too bad she didn’t sound pleased, not at all . . . “I’m the same, you realize,” he said gently, his countenance softening in the light of her upset.

She shot him a nervous little smile that wasn’t at all what the expression should have been. “I know,” she murmured. Suddenly, she waved a hand, her fake smile brightening painfully. “You’re absolutely right,” she stated with a determined nod.

Letting out a deep breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, Kichiro held out his hand, palm side up. “Come here, Belle-chan,” he coaxed.

Her smile faltered and dimmed as she stared at his hand, and he wasn’t entirely surprised when her eyes flared slightly, her cheeks paling slightly before blossoming in indignant color. “I-I can’t do it,” she finally admitted with a shake of her head. “I’m sorry . . .”

Kichiro sighed and sat up, staring darkly as his mate clutched the front of her robe, hiding herself from his perusal. After a moment, she carefully scooted off the bed and fairly ran to the bureau across the room, tugging open the top drawer that she rarely used, and he could only shake his head as she pulled a pair of panties out and hurriedly tugged them over her feet.

He couldn’t contain the snort that escaped as he watched her, as he shook his head incredulously. “How long have we been mates, little girl?” he asked, the evenness of his tone completely at odds with the turbulence in his appearance.

She had the grace to blush at the unspoken challenge. “A very long time,” she responded with a nervous clearing of her throat.

He nodded sagely. “And in those years, can you remember _one_ time that you actually deigned to wear panties before?”

Biting her lip, she shrugged offhandedly. “Well, no . . .” she allowed.

Rubbing his face with an exasperated hand, Kichiro told himself that he really couldn’t blame her even if he hadn’t actually thought that it would be this big a deal. “Belle . . .” he began then shook his head. For once, he wasn’t entirely certain exactly what to say to her that would make a difference.

“I’m sorry,” she said yet again, and to her credit, she really did look sorry. Deep blue eyes awash with heightened brilliance that he knew meant that she was upset, she ducked her head and peered at him behind the shadows that hid her beautiful face. “You know, I think I’ll sleep on the sofa,” she finally said, scurrying quickly toward the door.

“What?” he demanded in a tone that was much sharper than he’d meant for it to be. Shooting off the bed, he caught her wrist just before she could make it over the threshold, gently pulling her back then grimacing when she flinched and shied away from him. “No,” he said with a heavy sigh. “You can’t sleep on the sofa.”

She made a face. “It’s just . . . _weird_ ,” she stated once more. “I mean, my brain tells me that you’re you, but my nose just isn’t getting the message, and . . . and I’m afraid that if you reach for me in the middle of the night, I . . .” She trailed off, swallowing hard and stubbornly shaking her head. “What if I hit you of worse? I wouldn’t _mean_ to, of course, but I _could_ , and if I _did_ . . .”

He stared at his hand wrapped around her slender wrist and gritted his teeth, wishing that he could find fault with her logic. Unfortunately, he couldn’t, and he supposed he had to admit that he was vaguely pleased despite the overlying idea that his mate was basically telling him that she’d rather sleep alone than with him. “Belle, you take the bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

His offer made her look even more upset than she already was, and he winced, despising the smell of her rising anxiety: despising himself for being the cause of it. “Oh, no,” she blurted quickly.

He forced a smile to reassure her. “I insist,” he told her, “besides . . . if I slept in the bed, you’d just say that it smelled funny, too.”

Her eyes flared at that, and he sighed inwardly. Apparently that thought hadn’t crossed her mind. Still she didn’t try to stop him as he leaned down to kiss her forehead.   He didn’t miss her telltale stiffening, and he spared just a moment to give her another feigned smile before brushing past her and heading down the hallway toward the living room.

Pausing outside their youngest daughter’s room, he drew a deep breath and wrinkled his nose before lifting his knuckles to knock. Samantha mumbled something entirely unintelligible, and Kichiro pushed the door open, sticking his head inside and not surprised to find her sitting at her desk hunched over her notebooks from school. “Hey, babydoll,” he said quietly so that he wouldn’t startle her.

Her head jerked up at the sound of his voice moments before her eyes narrowed then flared wide. “P-papa?” she stammered with a shake of her head.

He sighed once more. He just couldn’t help it. Testing the Scent-Tabs didn’t seem like such a big deal an hour ago, did it? Now he could only regret his apparently rash decision. “Yeah, it’s me,” he said, waving a hand to forestall the questions that he could see forming behind Samantha’s too-quick gaze. “Do me a favor?”

She must have realized that he wasn’t in the mood to entertain her questions, and she nodded rather hesitantly. “Okay.”

“I’m going to sleep on the sofa,” he admitted with another forced smile. “Why don’t you sleep with your mama?”

She blinked quickly, obviously surprised by his idea of a favor. “Did you and Mama have a fight?”

The fake smile widened. “No, no . . . it’s not like that.”

She nodded slowly but still looked entirely perplexed. “Sure but . . . why do you smell—?”

“Don’t say ‘weird’,” Kichiro cut in abruptly.

Samantha’s little white hanyou ears twitched nervously. “You . . . you _are_ my papa . . . aren’t you . . .?”

He couldn’t contain the terse little growl that escaped him as he narrowed his eyes on the youngest of his children. She paled slightly then blushed, offering her father an apologetic little shrug and a consoling albeit wan smile. “Sorry,” she muttered, her cheeks pinking just a little more. “But, um . . . you _are_ , right?”

“ _Et tu_ , Samantha?” Kichiro grumped, rolling his eyes heavenward. “Of _course_ I’m your papa.” Heaving another sigh—he was making that particular noise a little too often for his liking—he shook his head. “I took one of the Scent-Tabs, if you must know.”

She considered that for a moment then nodded. “So you’ll smell normal again tomorrow?”

“I—” Cutting himself off, he rubbed his temple and pressed his lips together in a thin line. “I doubt it’ll wear off by tomorrow,” he replied honestly. “But in theory, it should wear off . . . soon . . .”

“ _Should?_ ” Bellaniece’s indignant squeak sounded behind him. “Define ‘ _should_ ’, Kichiro.”

Reining in the urge to grimace, he slowly pivoted on his heel to meet his wife’s stormy gaze. “Belle, you know as well as I do that there may be a chance—a _slim_ chance—that the change of scent _might_ —let me stress ‘might’ again— _might_ be . . . uh . . . permanent . . .”

“ _You_ said that the prelims showed that the change in the genetic structure weren’t long term,” she accused, narrowing her eyes menacingly. “ _You_ said that you were just making sure that there weren’t going to be any side-effects . . .”

“No,” he countered, his temper flaring just a little, “I said _almost_ positive—you think I’d make a statement like that without that little quantifier? And I _am_ testing for side-effects: side-effects like a permanent change of scent!”

He regretted the words the very second they came out of his mouth. Belle gasped softly, and the scent of her tears hit him moments later, and he watched in abject horror as the eyes that he loved so dearly filled with the suspect moisture. “I don’t think I want to talk to you anymore,” she stated quietly, lifting her chin a notch as her lips quivered, as her nostrils trembled. Then she careened about and darted off toward their bedroom, leaving Kichiro wincing when the door slammed hard.

Samantha uttered a soft clucking sound and shook her head slowly. “Oh, Papa,” she said with an exasperated sigh, crossing her arms over her chest and brushing past him. After casting him one last, long look, she tapped on her mother’s bedroom door and let herself in quietly.

Letting out a deep breath, Kichiro stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and shuffled down the hallway, heading for his study. He didn’t even try to delude himself into thinking that he would get a wink of sleep, not without his mate, and certainly not when he knew damn well exactly how upset she was at the moment.

To be honest, he hadn’t really considered the ramifications of the change of scent in that capacity though he should have. It made sense, after all. A youkai or hanyou’s senses were heightened well above those of a human, and as creatures that tended to remain a little closer to their primal selves, it should have occurred to him that the change in something as basic and oftentimes comforting as a mate’s scent would be entirely disconcerting to them.

Of course, Belle had known that he was going to take one of the innocent looking tablets. He’d determined that the risk of major side-effects was minimal, and she’d concurred after having poured over his notes and test results. Apparently, she hadn’t thought that the change in scent would be that difficult to deal with, either. In the end, though, he couldn’t fault her for it, even if it frustrated the hell out of him.

The trouble was that he wasn’t sure exactly how long the change in scent would last, either. It could wear off tomorrow though that was highly unlikely, or it could last for a week or a month. Since it was the first real trial, it was impossible to predict with any real accuracy.

Dropping into the chair behind his desk, he closed his eyes and slumped to the side, sparing a moment to rub his temples as he uttered yet another longsuffering sigh. Dwelling on it wasn’t going to hurry up the process, and at least he could attest to the fact that the Scent-Tabs worked. They should offer Sesshoumaru and Toga the reassurance that their hunters would be operating in a little wider area of security—something that would most certainly make the families of those hunters sleep easier, as well. Somehow, though, it seemed like a hollow victory, at best . . . True, the tabs still needed to be tested on a few more volunteers before it was declared a finished work, but Kichiro was cautiously optimistic that it wouldn’t take too long since it seemed to be working with flying colors now . . .

“I’m sorry,” Bellaniece said quietly as she slipped into the room. She didn’t approach him, but she did manage a wan little smile as she brushed a long lock of hair out of her eyes. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper with you.”

Kichiro scowled at his mate. “Don’t apologize, Belle-chan. It’s my own fault for not having realized that the change in my scent would bother you so much.”

She uttered a terse little sound of dissension but didn’t comment as she padded over to the easy chair nearby—the one she always curled up in when he was working—and sat down, tugging the soft fleece blanket off the back of the chair and wrapping herself up in it. The white fleece only served to make her eyes appear even darker in hue, and she stared at him solemnly over her raised, blanket-covered knees. “I didn’t realize that it was going to bother me so much,” she confessed, wrinkling her nose as though she were berating herself for the gross oversight.

She looked so forlorn that he wanted to reach for her, damned if he didn’t. Too bad he also knew that if he did, she’d balk. In the end, he reached for a file and tried to pacify himself with the incessant reminder that it wasn’t going to be forever.

“What’s that?” Belle asked, sitting up a little straighter and lifting her chin as though she were trying to look at the file, too.

He smiled despite his bleak thoughts. “Ah, it’s Baby-Belle’s results so far.”

“Oh? How’s that going?”

He spared her a cursory glance before returning his attention back to the file in front of him. “Everything looks good,” he said at length, his brow furrowing as he flipped through the extensive pages of images and written notes. “I’d say she’s about ready to test it out.”

“Who is she going to test it out on?” Bellaniece asked as she nodded thoughtfully.

“I don’t know. I mean, she hasn’t mentioned anyone in particular. It’s pretty sensitive stuff, so I’d imagine she’s being careful about the entire thing. Besides, this really is her project. She’s doing a damn fine job with it, too.”

Bellaniece nodded slowly then shrugged. “She’s as brilliant as her father,” she concluded.

“Keh!” Kichiro snorted but smiled. “Smarter, I hope,” he said with a rueful wince.

Bellaniece laughed.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle frowned at the syringe in her fingers as she carefully pulled on the plunger, drawing up the clear fluid with a steady hand. From the data she’d gathered, she knew roughly how much of a dosage to use based on body weight, and she bit her lip, pulling the needle out of the bottle and setting it aside before gently tapping the plastic barrel to force the trace amount of air to the top of the syringe.

‘ _Is this really a good idea?_ ’ her youkai voice fretted.

‘ _Good? Probably not, but it’s the best one I have_ ,’ she remarked absently, pushing slowly on the plunger until the serum flowed without air bubbles.

‘ _I don’t like the sound of that_ . . .’

She rolled her eyes and set the syringe aside before ripping open a sterile pack and pulling out the long rubber tubing. Tying it with one hand around her left arm, she caught one end in her teeth and tugged to tighten it. Almost instantly, she could feel the tingle in her limb as the blood flow was temporarily constricted, and she ripped open a foil packet to retrieve an alcohol swab.

As though he understood what she was doing, Froofie lifted his chin from his paws and stared up at her, uttering a low growl as his tail thumped twice against the closed bathroom door. She ignored the reproach in the animal’s gaze and rubbed at the delicate junction of her elbow.

‘ _Researchers test things on themselves all the time_ ,’ she assured herself and her youkai as she ran her fingertips over her skin to seek out the blood vessel. ‘ _Besides, none of the research indicated that there’s much risk in this at all, so it’s safe enough, right?_ ’

‘ _But it won’t work on you_ ,’ her youkai went on. ‘ _You’ve got your grandmother’s blood in you, remember? What’s the point of testing it on yourself when the truth is that it won’t have any sort of effect on you in the long run?_ ’

Pressing the needle into her arm with a fluid motion, Isabelle frowned as she slowly depressed the plunger, injecting the serum into her body. ‘ _I need to make sure that there aren’t any adverse effects_ ,’ she stated. ‘ _There shouldn’t be. I know there shouldn’t be. I just have to be positive that there aren’t_.’

‘ _But testing it on yourself? You just said that you were sure that there weren’t any_.’

‘ _I said that there_ shouldn’t _be any_ ,’ she contradicted, setting the syringe aside and tugging off the rubber string. Taking her time as she carefully replaced the plastic cap over the needle, she set it aside and gathered up the discarded prep kit. ‘ _None of the samples indicated any side effects, but I can’t in good conscience try it out on someone else until I’ve made sure_.’

Her youkai blood heaved a sigh but remained silent otherwise.

Flexing her arm a few times, Isabelle spared a moment to check the spot where she’d given herself the injection. Not even a droplet of blood appeared, and she smiled grimly before stowing the bottle in the medicine cabinet and dropping the used syringe into a clear plastic bag. She’d dispose of it the next time she went into the lab . . .

The house was quiet when she stepped out of the bathroom, and she could tell that Griffin had already gone into the bedroom. Her smile widened as she hurried down the hallway. Her attaché case sat on the coffee table where she’d left it, and she stuck the used syringe into the case and snapped it closed before turning off the lamp beside the sofa.

Griffin spared her a quick glance when she stepped into the bedroom then returned his attention to the book in his hands.

“Miss me?” she teased, crawling onto the bed and pulling the plain white sheet up as she snuggled against Griffin’s side.

He grunted without sparing her as much as a glance, careful to keep his gaze trained on the book instead. “How am I supposed to do that when you never go away?” he demanded.

“You remind me of the bear with the thorn in his paw,” she said, wiggling closer to kiss his cheek.

He snorted and shook his head, wrinkling his nose as he shrugged his shoulder in a token effort to put her off. “That’s a lion, Jezebel, and I do not.”

“You absolutely do,” she argued mildly, contenting herself with snuggling against his shoulder and tucking her head under his chin as well as she could, considering he was still holding tightly to his book. She sighed softly, peering over his forearm at the book in question. “Didn’t you forbid reading material in bed?” she demanded, arching an eyebrow as she leaned up to cast him a droll look.

“Only for you,” he clarified, “since you have no idea when to put anything down.”

“Hmm,” she drawled but couldn’t help smiling. “So what are you reading?”

“Nothing you’d understand.”

“Oh, and why’s that?”

He grunted. “No pictures.”

It took everything within her to keep from laughing outright, and she couldn’t keep her lips from twitching in absolute amusement. “Of course,” she quipped with a shake of her head. Leaning up on her elbows, she couldn’t resist temptation as she nipped at his chin. “How about you put that boring ol’ book up then and pay attention to me?”

He shot her a very dry, very red-faced glower that would have been much more effective if he didn’t look entirely discomfited by her attention. “Fat chance, woman. I’ll have you know that I’m immune to your wily ways.”

His words made her laugh, and she snuggled against him once more, neatly tucking her head under his chin and taking a few moments to breathe in the clean, fresh scent of his skin. Running her fingertips in light, fluttering circles on the fabric of the heather gray thermal shirt he wore in lieu of pajamas, she sighed softly. “Wily, am I?” She giggled then stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. “I like that.”

“You would,” Griffin mumbled.

‘ _You do, too_ ,’ his youkai blood piped up, ‘ _and you like how warm and soft she is_.’

‘ _About as much as I like the idea of burning in everlasting hellfire_ ,’ he contended, lifting his left arm and using his bicep to push his reading glasses up his nose.

‘ _Well . . . we_ could _put the book down_ . . .’

He didn’t bother to respond to that. No, the book was the only thing keeping her at bay, or so it would seem. Apparently not satisfied with tracing circles on his chest, she had moved onto rubbing instead.

‘ _She’s a she-devil. That’s all there is to it_ ,’ he grumbled, unable to staunch the flow of blood that shot straight to his face as he grimaced. ‘ _Doesn’t she know what that sort of thing does to a person?_ ’

His youkai snorted indelicately. ‘ _You think she doesn’t?_ ’

‘. . . _Whose side are you on?_ ’

‘ _Whose do you_ think?’

And that didn’t deserve an answer, either, as far as Griffin was concerned. “I-Isabelle,” he growled, shrugging the shoulder she was resting on in a vain effort to shake her off.

She budged long enough to lean up and kiss his cheek. “C’mon, big guy,” she said, her voice husky and caressing, barely above a whisper. “I can entertain you better than that picture-less book can . . .”

“Highly doubtful,” he muttered. Her hands were dragging ever-lower, rubbing at his abdomen, and he grimaced as his stomach gave an entirely too-pleasant lurch.

She laughed softly. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

She heaved a melodramatic sigh. “Fine, fine, but don’t say that I didn’t try . . .”

He snorted indelicately, gritting his teeth and ignoring the inebriating burn that ignited everywhere her hands brushed over. Even if he’d been inclined to sleep without his shirt on, he never would have. No, having her touching bare skin was just a little more than he could think about . . .

He sighed and scowled down at the top of her head. Having spent the bulk of the day running around with her as she herded him from one store to another in search of new clothes before she suggested rather offhandedly that they stop by the lab—a venture which had taken much longer than a normal ‘stop’ ought to, in his estimation—he was entirely exhausted. He simply wasn’t used to her ebullience, her energy, and to be honest, he wasn’t entirely certain that he ever could be, either.

And that was a problem. Even if he could wrap his mind around the idea that she seemed to be convinced that she really was his mate, there really wasn’t any way possible that he would ever be able to keep up with her. It was exasperating, really, and more than a little demoralizing, as well. That aside, he still couldn’t quite understand why a woman like her was wasting time with a guy like him. He wasn’t good at making jokes, didn’t know the first thing about dating or anything that seemed even remotely close to it. ‘ _Let’s not gild the lily here_ ,’ he thought with an inward snort as his cheeks pinked just a little, ‘ _when it comes to_ her _, I don’t get any of it . . . not a damn thing_ . . .’

‘ _Be that as it may_ ,’ his youkai chided, ‘ _you don’t have to be brilliant to understand one simple thing_.’

‘ _Oh? And what would that be?_ ’

‘ _She_ wants _you, stupid . . . or is your nose broken?_ ’

He tensed immediately and intensely, unable to help the knee-jerk reaction—or the almost painful inundation of his sense of smell that hit him hard. No, he hadn’t actually noticed it before, but now, thanks to his meddlesome youkai voice, he most certainly did . . . ‘ _That—that—no, she doesn’t!_ ’

His first instinct was to run like hell. He’d known all along that the woman was trouble, after all. The trouble was that he remembered only too well just what her body felt like, the softness of her skin, the absolute perfection that he’d understood even though he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it. The beat of her heart—steady, if not slightly elevated—called to him, and despite the fleeting thought that he ought to push her away before it was too late, the truth of it was that he just didn’t want to do any such thing . . .

His hand was shaking as he snapped the book closed and carefully leaned to the side to deposit it on the night stand, and he grimaced when she snuggled closer while he settled back against the headboard once more. “You’re kind of a pain,” he muttered, letting out a long-suffering sigh designed to let her know that he felt sorely put upon for the unceremonious intrusion.

She didn’t answer.

His frown deepened as he shrugged the shoulder that she was using as a pillow. “Jezebel?”

She still didn’t answer, and Griffin craned his neck in a vain effort to see her face. “Are you listening, girly?”

It took a moment for his brain to register exactly what was going on, and when he did, his eyes flared wide then narrowed as he gave his shoulder a slightly rougher shake. “You can’t _possibly_ be asleep,” he growled in mild disbelief.

As if in answer to his suspicions, the unfathomable woman sighed heavily moments before she broke into a very loud, very pronounced snore.

He couldn’t quite credit the ruckus she was making, either. After all, she’d never snored before, had she? Why on earth would she start doing that now?

‘ _To drive me insane_ ,’ he thought almost automatically.

‘ _Don’t be nasty_.’

Griffin rolled his eyes, still not ready to accept the idea that she really was sound asleep. Shaking his shoulder again, he could only frown as she lilted back and forth but didn’t stir. Shifting from side to side and making sure that he jostled her aplenty, he could only snort when that didn’t rouse her, either. ‘ _Wh—? She—I—I can’t believe her!_ ’ he sputtered indignantly, unable to do much more than scowl at the snoring female.

‘ _She sounds like she’s asleep to me,_ ’ his youkai remarked baldly.

‘ _B-But it was_ her _idea!_ ’

‘ _That’s what you get for dragging your feet_.’

Griffin snorted loudly then jerked back when an extra loud snore rumbled out of the sleeping woman. Snorting again, he pushed her over to her side of the bed and rolled over onto his side, deciding that she could damn well sleep over there if she was going to make such a hideous racket all night.

“Wh—What?” she mumbled, having woke up when he’d pushed her aside. “Griff’n?”

He snorted yet again but refused to answer.

“Mm,” she half-moaned, half-yawned as she scooted over and hugged his back.

Griffin shrugged again despite the instant blush that stained his cheeks. “This is not your side of the bed,” he grumped.

She gave one small laugh. “Night,” she murmured, already drifting off once more even as she slipped her arm around his waist.

He opened his mouth to answer but gasped instead when her damned hand brushed over his crotch, and to make matters worse, that hideous snoring started up all over again, too.

It was more than he could stand. ‘ _Why try to get my attention when she’s only going to fall asleep?_ ’ he fumed, picking up her hand as though she were afflicted with leprosy before flinging it to the side. No doubt about it, she was a succubus; she had to be—a siren that lured unsuspecting men to their deaths, and she wanted to add Griffin to her morbid tally, damn it.

“Not on your life,” he muttered, tossing the coverlet aside and rolling out of the bed as Isabelle tried to snuggle closer again.

He’d have to be a martyr to stay in that bed. He’d have to be a _saint_.

Snorting indelicately, he stomped out of the room and down the hallway, mumbling under his breath about she-devils and daughters of darkness.

Too bad Griffin wasn’t a martyr or a saint . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Kichiro’s statement to Samantha, “Et tu?” for those who don’t know, is a phrase borrowed from Julius Caesar. Depicted as his final words and used today to signify grave betrayal, Julius Caesar was supposed to have said these words to his best friend, Brutus just before he allegedly surrendered himself to his fate during a coup d’état. In layman’s terms, it means, “You, too?” or “Even you?_ ”
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :
> 
>  _She’s not going to get me_ …


	60. Miles Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _I realize that I don’t normally open a chapter with an author’s note, but I’m making an exception. This chapter is dedicated to one of my readers who had_ _been_ _reading_ _along_ _from_ _the_ _beginning. She recently lost her battle with cancer. I ask for everyone to take a moment and hug those close to you; those whom you love. I think this is the most fitting way to celebrate her life_.

Isabelle woke slowly, rubbing her sleep-gritty eyes as she contemplated the idea of rolling over and going back to sleep. She was incredibly sleepy, and the bed was just too warm and inviting to ignore. Burying her face in her pillow once more, she let her eyes drift closed once more. Froofie whined softly, shoving his head under her hand that was flopped over the side of the bed, and she sighed. “All right, I hear you,” she murmured, sitting up and heaving a sigh that was interrupted with a yawn so wide it made her jaw ache.

Scooting off the bed and shuffling toward the door, she shook her head in an effort to stave off the barrage of fatigue that swept through her, and she wrinkled her nose and rubbed her forearms. It wasn’t any wonder she was so tired, really. She’d been working nonstop on the research for almost a year, hadn’t she? It stood to reason that all her efforts were finally starting to catch up with her . . .

Griffin didn’t look up as she padded into the living room. Sitting in his recliner with the newspaper pulled up over his face, he snorted indelicately and shook the pages with a distinct rattle.

“Morning, Pooh Bear,” she said, eyeing the sofa speculatively before forcing her gaze away.

He snorted once more and mumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

Deciding that making a pot of coffee was just not worth the effort at the moment, Isabelle veered to the side and perched on the edge of the sofa. “When did you get up?” she asked amiably.

That got his attention quickly enough. Letting the newspaper fold forward, he peered around the pages at her, his already dark eyes inscrutable though if she had to put a name to the emotion in his expression, she’d have to guess that he was . . . surprised.

“Get up?” he echoed rather indignantly, his low tone coming across as more of a growl than anything else. “When did I get up?”

She blinked innocently and reached for the small pile of envelopes he’d left on the coffee table for her. “A while, then? Didn’t you sleep well?”

“Not nearly as well as you did,” he snorted. “By the way, if you insist on snoring like you did last night, you can move into the guest room.”

Glancing up from the envelopes she was leafing through, she quirked an eyebrow, her lips twitching with a slight smile. “I don’t _snore!_ ” she protested.

“Keep telling yourself that, girly,” he muttered, shaking out the newspaper and jerking it up in front of his face once more. “It doesn’t change the fact that you did.”

Rolling her eyes as she turned her attention back to the stack of mail, she shook her head dismissively. “You’d think after all these years that I’d know if I snored,” she pointed out.

“You’d think,” he agreed rather acerbically.

“So,” she said, dropping the stack of mostly junk onto the coffee table as she turned her full attention on the surly bear-youkai, “aren’t you teaching at the preschool today?”

That earned her another glower around the edge of the paper. “I already did all that,” he told her tersely.

She laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “Of course you haven’t!” she chided with a giggle. “It’s only . . .” Trailing off as she flipped her wrist to adjust her watch, she couldn’t help but widen her eyes as she stared at the time. “It’s _three?_ In the afternoon?”

Griffin snorted. “Yes, Isabelle: three.”

She digested that in silence for a few minutes, still unable to quite grasp the idea that she’d been asleep for so long. “Oh . . .”

He didn’t respond to that, and Isabelle sighed as a comfortable wave of drowsiness washed over her once more. Pushing it aside, she stood up and wandered over to Griffin, instead. “Make room, Dr. G. Wide-load coming through,” she teased.

“And what was wrong with the sofa?” he barked, stubbornly refusing to look at her.

“There’s nothing wrong with the sofa,” she admitted, slipping onto his lap anyway. “But I’d rather cuddle with you.”

“You’re crushing me,” he stated flatly, as though it was a foregone conclusion.

She smiled wanly as she nestled her cheek against his chest, her eyes drifting closed of their own accord. “Mmm,” she breathed.

“Coming over here and pretending that you’re all innocent,” he grumbled. “ _‘Put the book down, Griffin . . . Pay attention to me, Griffin_ ’,” he intoned in an uncharacteristic impersonation of her.

Isabelle leaned up, pushing the newspaper away from his face and pressed her lips together to keep from laughing straight out. He looked so entirely disgruntled that she couldn’t help herself. “Did you?” she couldn’t resist asking.

“Did I what?”

She laughed. “Did you put the book down?”

The innocent question resulted in a livid blush that absolutely exploded under his skin. “Of course not!” he retorted hotly.

“You did,” she gloated incredulously. “Really?”

“No,” he stated even more vehemently. “And even if _I_ did, you were asleep, weren’t you, so _you_ wouldn’t know, one way or another.”

The last part of his statement was uttered in a voice so low that Isabelle had to strain to hear it, and when she did, she hugged him. “Aww,” she replied, her apologetic tone completely undermined by the laugh with which she uttered it. “I’m sorry . . .”

“You’re not.”

“No, no, I am; I swear! Let me make it up to you?”

His answer was a very loud snort—and a very vivid blush.

Leaning forward, she kissed his cheek then turned her head just enough to nibble on his bottom lip. “Please?”

She felt him shudder as he swallowed hard, his entire body tensing at the close contact. “W-why? Need a nap, do you?”

Turning slightly and bracing herself on his chest long enough for her to straddle his lap, she couldn’t help herself as she pressed her body against his, and she couldn’t help the stifled moan that slipped from her as he gave in, his kiss hesitant yet entirely unsettling, his lips warm and soft. Every part of her wanted to crawl inside him, to merge with his soul, his heart, his life, until she lost herself completely.

Savoring the feel of his underlying strength radiating to her through the breath of space that separated them, she kneaded the muscles under her fingers; his shoulders, his arms, his chest. The hum of her surging blood filled her ears, goading her with the unspoken promise of everything that she’d ever wanted to be.

Shifting enough to pull her closer, he tensed under her touch, his body coiling tighter and tighter as though it were taking everything that he possessed to keep himself in check. In unspoken answer, she rose against him, ran her hands over his chest and up around his neck, holding onto him as though her very existence depended upon him, and maybe—just maybe—it did . . .

Abruptly breaking away, Griffin let his head fall back as he struggled to draw ragged breaths. Skin flushed, eyes burning with an unbelievable intensity, he cleared his throat once, twice, his hand slowly rising, stroking her hair as he narrowed his gaze as though he were trying to see into her very soul.

Isabelle smiled—she couldn’t help it. He seemed to be asking her something or willing her to understand, but her brain was too foggy to comprehend it. Something about being so very close to him precluded her ability to think, didn’t it? ‘ _Close, but not nearly close enough_ ,’ her mind whispered. She wanted to crawl into him, under his skin, to revel in the beat of his heart . . .

He continued to stare at her, his gaze so intense, so inebriating that she almost forgot to breathe. There was an insular intensity suffused with a brilliance that couldn’t be defined, and she gasped softly when he reached for her, his fingers tangling in her hair as he drew her close. Eyelids fluttering closed, he brushed his lips over hers once, twice—no more than a feathery touch that set off an ache deep inside her chest—at the unmistakable show of tenderness that he tried so often to hide. ‘ _Everything_ . . .’ she thought absently, grasping his wrist, hanging onto him as though she were afraid to let go. ‘ _Everything; everything_ . . .’

He held her with a gentleness that she could barely credit, his hands shaking but strong; his arms welcome, emanating a warmth that spoke to her. Familiar and exciting, tinged with an emotion that cosseted her, he was home to her, wasn’t he? Wherever he was . . . that was where she belonged . . .

Pulling back suddenly, Isabelle barely had a chance to turn her head to the side when a jaw-splitting yawn intruded on the idyllic moment, and she blinked back the moisture that had gathered in her eyes.

Griffin uttered a terse little sound—almost a growl, and without as much as a warning, he stood up, unceremoniously dumping her on the floor in the process.

Unable to contain the little laugh that slipped out of her, she shook her head and reached for his hand. “I’m sorry!” she giggled, completely undermining her own apology with her humor.

He snorted loudly, jerking his hand away before she could latch onto it and striding toward the back door.

“Where are you going?” Isabelle called after him as she pushed herself to her feet. She’d stopped laughing, but the smile had yet to dissipate.

“For a walk,” he replied without missing a beat.

“Wait a minute, and I’ll come with you,” she offered.

He snorted again. “Don’t bother. Wouldn’t want you _sleepwalking_ , would we?”

She blinked at the blatant sarcasm—something that Griffin rarely resorted to. “Oh, come on,” she insisted, darting around the sofa to intercept him before he could make it out the door. “It’ll just take me a minute.”

He shook her off and shot her a fulminating glower—at least, it would have been fulminating if his face weren’t still flushed. “Forget it, girly. I want to go alone.”

“You can’t just leave your mate behind,” she chided playfully.

He whipped around to face her, his cheeks growing redder as he narrowed his eyes dangerously, and she stepped back in retreat. “I don’t _have_ a mate,” he growled, his tone all the more menacing because of the deep rumble that punctuated his words, “and I’m going on my walk _alone_.”

She stood dumbfounded, staring at his broad back as he stomped out of the house, her brain unable to grasp the meaning of what he’d said until well after he’d disappeared into the forest.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Dropping the stack of papers onto the table with a long, drawn out exhalation, Gunnar lifted a steaming mug of black coffee to his lips as he stuffed his other hand deep into the pocket of his slacks and wandered toward the huge bay windows that overlooked the lawn hidden behind a fence of masonry and wrought iron and a shield of stately looking hedges that stood fifteen feet high and blocked the view of any who would happen to venture past.

He couldn’t stop thinking, damn it. What had first been little more than a joke or maybe a slip of the tongue on Isabelle’s part had slowly taken root in his head, to the point that he’d done nothing but analyze it since he’d stopped over to see her a few days before.

The serum was ready to be tested, she’d said, and while she’d maintained that she’d be able to find someone willing to do it eventually, he knew as well as she did that the research was far too sensitive to let it become common knowledge, at least until it was perfected and proven. True enough, there were many hanyou in their direct family, but the trouble was that most of them were direct descendants of Kagome, so the serum wouldn’t do a thing to them, and even then, most of them also had mates. Taking any sort of chance in light of that was entirely out of the question, as far as Gunnar was concerned.

Isabelle was fairly certain that the potential risks weren’t life-threatening, but there was still that bit of a doubt, and it was Gunnar’s opinion that hanyou who had mates would be best left out of the preliminary testing since nothing quite like it had ever been tested before. That alone served to narrow the field even more dramatically.

And that was all part of why he just couldn’t stop thinking about it . . .

“ _Oh? Are you volunteering to be my guinea pig?” Isabelle teased with a wink as she handed him the notebook containing her research testing results_.

 _Wrinkling his nose, Gunnar snorted as he flipped through the pages. “You make it sound like a bad idea_.”

“ _I’m sure that we’ll be able to find a suitable candidate without dipping into the Inu no Taisho’s gene pool_.”

But could she? After all, if confidentiality was of paramount importance to the project, and if one took all the other factors into consideration when choosing a suitable test subject, then he really was the perfect choice.

Almost as an afterthought, Gunnar’s gaze dropped to the plain gold band that he wore on his right hand ring finger. Given to his mother years ago, it was said that it had belonged to the great monk, Miroku who, along with his wife, the _tajiya_ Sango, had journeyed and fought alongside InuYasha and Kagome against Naraku. Sierra Crawford Inutaisho had descended from the monk, and she’d given Gunnar Miroku’s ring when he was born. It held some of the monk’s spiritual power and served to bind Gunnar’s youkai blood in much the same way that Kagome’s offspring were protected because of the power of Kagome’s miko blood.

It was just a ring, though, and rings could break, and while he refused to dwell on that idea, he knew as well as anyone that the risk was still there. After all, if his uncle’s legendary sword could break then so could a paltry ring, right?

In fact, the longer he considered it, the more appealing the idea became. He was in line to be the Japanese tai-youkai, wasn’t he, and he knew damn well that a tai-youkai did not back down from the unknown, and even then, he didn’t have a mate to consider, and if worse came to worst, his parents could always have another son . . .

‘ _As if they would consider that an option_ ,’ his youkai scoffed indelicately.

‘ _I did say ‘if worse came to worst’, did I not?_ ’

‘ _Yes, well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that_.’

‘ _Of course_ . . .’ Lifting his chin, he narrowed his eyes as he scanned the yard outside the windows with a stubborn set to his jaw as he squared his shoulders and slowly sipped the coffee. No, as far as he was concerned, it was a _fait accompli_ , whether Isabelle liked it or not . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Griffin crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at the woman sleeping soundly—and snoring again—curled up on the sofa with the devil-ridden cat curled up on her hip.

Something wasn’t right, was it? When had he ever known her to sleep so much? No, she was too vibrant, always in motion, or so it seemed to him. It just didn’t make sense.

He’d spent the bulk of his walk arguing with his youkai voice over the callousness of his words before he’d stomped out of the house. Already balancing on the precipice between wanting to believe in the idea of lifetime mates and the nagging thought that never completely left him alone: that as much as she might think that she belonged with him, the differences between them were just too vast to be ignored, her huge yawn during what he had thought was a moment of weakness on his part had all but convinced him that he was right, after all.

He knew, didn’t he, what that moment had meant to him, and though he was loathe to admit as much, he had let his guard down. What, exactly, had it meant to her? How could it mean much of anything to her when she could turn around and yawn? That realization had stung, damned if it hadn’t, and while he’d love to believe otherwise, he knew deep down that it was his mortification, his hurt pride, that had spurred the outburst.

Now, though, staring down at her, he slowly shook his head. He’d been surprised that she was still asleep after he’d returned home from the preschool around noon, and while he knew that she’d been burning the candle at both ends, so to speak, on the research, he hadn’t thought that she was _that_ exhausted.

“How long has she been sleeping, Charlie?” he muttered, his gaze shifting to the side to stare at the dog. Charlie whined and nudged his head under Griffin’s hand. At the sound of his voice, the cat cracked an eye open, and she mewled plaintively. Griffin snorted. “Not you, Butt-Ugly. _Her_.”

The trill of the phone made him jump, and with a low growl he stomped over to grab it. “H-hello?”

“Griffin? Hey, it’s Cain.”

“Oh, uh, I-Isabelle’s taking a nap,” he muttered, his eyes shifting back to the woman on the sofa.

Zelig grunted in acknowledgement. “That’s okay. I’m sure you know the answer to my question, anyway.”

Griffin wasn’t as sure as the tai-youkai seemed to be. “What’s that?”

“Well, Bitty called yesterday and said that she was about ready to do a preliminary test. Is that so?”

Considering Zelig’s question, Griffin nodded slowly. “Yes, I think she said something about that.”

“Really? Good. Does she have anyone in mind to test it on? I can make a list of potential candidates, if she wants,” he offered.

Griffin snorted since it was on the tip of his tongue to suggest Gunnar again since he figured that there was a good chance that Zelig, too, knew that the cub could use a good come-uppance. “That’d be a good idea,” he agreed instead.

“All right, then. Would you let her know that I called?”

“Uh, sure . . .” Griffin mumbled, relieved that it seemed like Zelig was going to keep the call short. “Oh, um, hold on. Isabelle might have made a list or something.” It only took a few strides for him to reach the coffee table, and he hunkered down in front of it, not at all surprised to see that she hadn’t bothered to secure the locks on her attaché case. Lifting the lid with a sigh, he made a mental note to remind her that she ought to keep the thing locked but frowned at the thick pink plastic bag carelessly tossed on top of everything else. His frown deepened as he picked it up and eyed it carefully. ‘ _Why does she have a syringe in there?_ ’

“Griffin?” Zelig’s interrupted.

Griffin blinked, and he closed the attaché case with the bagged syringe still in hand. “I-I don’t see one,” he muttered.

“Okay. I’ll put together something and drop it by later.”

“Y-Yeah . . .”

Clicking off the phone, he let it drop on the table as he pushed himself to his feet without taking his eyes off the bag in his hand. ‘ _What . . .?_ ’

Pulling the baggy open, he cautiously lowered his face and sniffed. There wasn’t a definitive smell of any chemicals that he could define, but he did smell trace amounts of blood—Isabelle’s blood—and he couldn’t repress the fierce snarl that erupted from deep within.

It was the lingering scent of her blood that moved him forward. He was done wondering and trying to figure things out, damn it. He wanted answers, and she was going to give them to him . . .

“What the hell is this?” he demanded, raising his voice as he glowered at the sleeping woman. When she didn’t even flinch, he snorted loudly, bumping the sofa with his knee, sending the cat skittering away at the unwelcome invasion. “Isabelle!”

Awaking with a start, she blinked and jerked her head as though she were looking for something. She was obviously having trouble focusing, and Griffin’s eyes flared wide as the beginnings of a thought began to form in his mind. “Wh . . .? Huh . . .? G-Griffin?”

“What the hell did you do?” he growled from between clenched teeth.

She pushed herself up slowly and had to rub her eyes before she was able to get a good look at the bag that he was holding right under her nose. When she finally did, he didn’t miss the slight flaring of her eyes before she shook her head and shrugged. “Oh, that? It’s not a big deal,” she muttered, her voice still thick with the lingering remnants of sleep.

“Not a big deal?” he echoed dubiously. “Then what is it?”

Brushing him aside as she stood up and shuffled toward the kitchen, she mumbled something that he didn’t catch, and with a frustrated growl, he followed her.

“What. Is. It?” he asked again, watching as she filled the coffee maker with water and fumbled with the air-tight coffee container. Closing the distance between them in one long stride, he took the canister and opened it since her fingers were apparently not willing to cooperate.

“Thank you,” she said as she rolled her eyes and took the canister back. “I tried out the serum on myself,” she said in a tone that stated quite plainly that she thought Griffin was overreacting.

Rocking back on his heels, he shook his head, narrowed his eyes, unable to decide if he really had heard her say what she’d just said or if his mind was just playing tricks on him. Barking out a terse laugh that was completely devoid of any real humor, Griffin grabbed Isabelle’s arm and jerked her around to face him. “You _what?_ ” he hissed, his gaze raking over her features.

Scowling at him since he’d inadvertently made her spill a bit of the coffee grounds, she spared him a look designed to let him know that she thought he was completely overreacting. “My ears are just fine,” she replied dryly, tugging her arm out of his grasp and carefully measuring coffee into the filter basket.

“Are you insane?” he countered. “What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

Smacking the lid of the coffee maker closed, Isabelle jabbed the ‘on’ button before carting around to glower up at him as she crossed her arms over her chest. “I told you, it’s not a big deal. I was just making sure that there weren’t any unforeseen side effects; that’s all.”

Snorting indelicately at her overly-reasonable tone, he clenched his hands into tight fists at his sides to keep from grabbing her and giving her a good, hard shake. “Side effects? And _that_ wouldn’t have been a big deal, now would it?” he snapped.

She shot him a disbelieving look before turning her attention back to the coffee maker again. “I told you before, Griffin, there wasn’t really anything presented in the preliminary tests that would have suggested that there would be any.”

He could feel his teeth grinding together as he counted to twenty before responding. “And you also said that you couldn’t be sure since you were only testing on tissue samples,” he reminded her.

Letting out a deep breath, she leaned against the counter and slowly shook her head. “I’m telling you, everything’s fine— _just_ fine.”

“Fine?” he snarled, grabbing her arm and forcing her to look at him. “You call doing something this stupid ‘ _fine’?_ ”

“Stupid?” she echoed, eyebrows shooting up to disappear under her bangs in feigned surprise as she jerked her arm away from him. “It’s hardly stupid!”

“I beg to differ.”

Heaving a sigh, she frowned at him long and hard before responding. He had a feeling that she was trying to come up with some way of justifying her actions, and that only served to tick him off a little more. “Stupid would be testing the serum on someone who doesn’t have a clue what they’re using, don’t you think? Aren’t you the one who keeps reminding me that I can’t tell anyone about the research? Aren’t you the one who is convinced that there’s someone out there just _dying_ to get their hands on it?”

“You are not going to try to talk your way out of this, Isabelle, because I’m not buying.”

She sighed, rubbing her hands over her face in an infinitely weary sort of way. “You’re being ridiculous, Griffin.”

Narrowing his eyes, he shook his head as he balled his hands into tight fists. “What if something goes wrong? What then?”

A strange glint of emotion flitted over her face before a cold, stony blankness slammed down over her features. “What does it matter to you?” she challenged, suddenly taking the offensive. “I’m not your mate. I’m nothing to you!”

He was just angry enough to retaliate in kind. “Damn right,” he snarled. “If I had one, she wouldn’t do anything as colossally stupid as test that crap on herself!”

“I see,” she said in a tight, clipped tone. “Of course she wouldn’t.”

He snorted, ignoring the sarcasm dripping from her words and pinned her with a dark glower meant to shut her up. “Does your father do stupid stuff like this?” he growled.

Shaking her head again, she looked entirely perplexed by his abrupt question. “What does Papa have to do with it?”

“He’s a researcher, isn’t he?”

Pinching the bridge of her nose for a moment before she shook her head in utter exasperation, she leveled a look at him. “Papa has and does test things on himself when necessary, yes,” she said, her tone clipped as though she were struggling to retain a semblance of calm.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, that’s so.”

He could feel the blood surging through him, attesting to the anger that he just couldn’t control. After one last, long scowl, he turned on his heel and stomped out of the kitchen with one destination in mind. She couldn’t see reason, could she? Couldn’t she understand just how careless her actions had been? What she called ‘no big deal’ was a huge deal to him, damn it. Those side effects she was so worried about . . . What if she . . .?

He located her cell phone easily enough, and he wasn’t surprised that her precious papa’s number was second on her list. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized that he had no idea exactly what time it was in Tokyo, but given the circumstances, he really didn’t care.

The phone only rang twice before a voice greeted him. “Baby Belle?”

Griffin grunted, rubbing his forehead as the beginnings of a vicious headache kicked in. “Uh, no, sorry. I’m Griffin.”

Kichiro Izayoi didn’t answer right away, likely because he’d heard of Griffin, of course, but it was the first time that they’d actually spoken. “Dr. Marin, correct? Is everything all right?”

He grimaced, brushing aside the nagging feeling that he was, in the words of one of the children from his preschool class, ratting Isabelle out. “Well, uh, I just . . . I-I-I just had a question. Sir.”

“Kichiro’s fine,” her father assured Griffin warmly. He could hear the amusement in Kichiro’s voice. “What’s your question?”

Pressing his lips together, he frowned as he tried to find the right way to phrase it then snorted loudly at his own perceived show of indecision. “Is it . . . normal . . . to test stuff out on yourself?”

“Test stuff out?” Kichiro echoed. “You mean as a researcher?”

“Yes.”

“Uh, well, sure, depending. I mean, it’s not unheard-of. As long as there’s someone there to watch for signs of side-effects or unforeseen trouble, it is safe enough.”

Brushing aside the nagging feeling that he was tattling, Griffin snorted indelicately. “You mean someone like another doctor.”

He heard the groan of a chair being pushed back and waited for Kichiro’s answer. “Of course.”

Clearing his throat, Griffin glanced back toward the kitchen doorway. “And if there wasn’t another one? What then?”

“Then it’s a bad idea—a really bad idea,” Kichiro concluded. “Why?”

Grimacing at the hint of foreboding that tinged Dr. Izayoi’s voice, Griffin scowled at the floor and slowly shook his head. “She didn’t . . . tell anyone . . .” he muttered, disgusted with her for having done such a foolish thing; disgusted with himself for feeling bad about ratting on her, and to her father, no less.

“W . . . What?” Kichiro asked, his tone taking on a hint of incredulity. “Are you saying that Baby-Belle—?”

“She says she’s fine,” Griffin cut in defensively. “I mean, she seems . . . all right . . .”

“Where the hell is she?” Kichiro demanded. “When did she do this?”

“She’s in the kitchen,” he grumbled, cheeks pinking though he was hard-pressed to understand why he would be embarrassed. “I-I don’t know, exactly . . . Yesterday, I guess . . . last night . . .”

Kichiro unleashed a string of expletives before he could string together a cohesive sentence. “Put her on the phone,” he growled then sighed. “No, don’t. I’m too angry to do anything but yell at her. Listen, Griffin, just keep an eye on her, will you? I’ll call her grandfather; see if he knows of someone he trusts to take a look at her right now. I’ll be on the next flight out.”

“Sh-She seems okay,” Griffin reiterated.

“Debatable,” Kichiro argued. “Has she gotten knocked upside the head lately?”

Unable to restrain the slight growl that issued from him, Griffin gripped the phone so tightly that it creaked and groaned before he could force himself to loosen his hold on the device. He might think that was she’d done was stupid, but he’d be damned before he’d let anyone else disparage her for her actions . . . “She was . . . She was doing what she thought was best,” he gnashed out from between clenched teeth.

“The _hell_ she did,” Kichiro shot back then drew a deep breath. “Look, Griffin, thanks for calling me. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Blinking when the line went dead, Griffin snapped the phone closed and dropped it onto Isabelle’s attaché case before rubbing his hands over his face in an entirely weary sort of way. He didn’t trust himself to speak to her, but he couldn’t leave her, even to retreat to the basement. A cold fear gripped him so tightly that he clutched his shirt over his heart and winced. She might be fine, like she claimed, but did that really matter when he couldn’t be sure, and even if she said that she was all right, how did he know that she wasn’t keeping things from him just so that he wouldn’t worry?

Chin lifting as his eyes narrowed dangerously, Griffin uttered a low growl as his gaze shifted to the kitchen. He was stupid, wasn’t he? Hadn’t he realized it earlier? She was never that tired, damn it, and she sure as hell had never snored before. Wondering how he could have missed something so obvious and berating himself for his gross oversight, he didn’t notice as he dug his claws deep into his palms; didn’t register the scent of his blood rising around him as a complete and utter self-loathing dug into his soul.

He should have _known_ , shouldn’t he? Her uncharacteristic sleepiness . . . It was because of that damn shot. What he wasn’t sure of was whether or not that was the only side-effect . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Tajiya_** _: youkai exterminator_.
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final Thought from Griffin_** :  
>  _Damn fool woman_ …


	61. Papa

Isabelle groaned and waved a hand in a vain effort to brush aside the hand that was holding firmly but gently onto her wrist. “N . . . no-o-o-o,” she half-whimpered when the hand let go only to push her eyelid up to shine the thin beam of a pencil-sized flashlight in her eye.

“Her pupils are a little slow to dilate, but her pulse is good.”

Blinking furiously at the very sound of that voice, she waved her hands again to stave off the onslaught. “P-papa?” she stammered, her voice still thick with lingering sleepiness.

Kichiro didn’t reply, slapping her hands away and continuing his assault on her senses. “And she’s been sleeping since she gave herself that shot?” he asked brusquely.

“Yeah.”

Rubbing her eyes with balled-up fists, she snorted quietly when she heard Griffin’s terse reply. “Papa, I’m fine,” she insisted.

“I thought she was just tired, but . . . Well, it’s not normal,” Griffin continued, his tone taking on a distinctly defensive sort of rumble.

“Open,” Kichiro demanded in a brusque tone.

Rolling her eyes, Isabelle heaved a sigh designed to let them know that she thought the entire affair was a bit outer-limits, but she complied, opening her mouth then grunting when Kichiro jammed an old fashioned thermometer under her tongue.

“Papa, isn’t this a little silly?” she countered, sitting up and yanking the thermometer free. “I’m fine, you know.”

“You’ll put that back or I’ll find another place to stick it, and I’m pretty sure you won’t like it, daughter of mine,” he commanded.

She wrinkled her nose but stuck the thermometer under her tongue again. “Hrumph.”

“And her blood work?” Griffin asked.

Kichiro’s frown darkened. “It showed a few . . . abnormalities, but nothing big.”

“Abnormalities?” Griffin echoed, his voice taking on a decided growl. “What do you mean, nothing ‘big’? Abnormalities _are_ ‘big’, aren’t they? That’s the nature of an abnormality, isn’t it?”

“What I meant was,” Kichiro began in an even tone, “nothing _serious_ , Griffin. She’s stupid, but she isn’t dying.”

She could feel Griffin’s tension lessening just a little, and she uttered a soft grunt of her own to remind them that ‘she’ was right there. They ignored her.

“Then you should’ve said that in the first place . . . sir,” he added almost as an afterthought.

Kichiro blinked and shot Griffin an almost surprised look. “Sir? Kami, don’t call me that. Kichiro will do nicely.”

Griffin cleared his throat, his cheeks pinking just slightly though he nodded. “So she’ll be okay?” he finally asked.

Kichiro heaved a sigh as he scowled at his daughter. “She should be, yes.”

Griffin snorted. “You ever consider that maybe she ought to have been beaten as a child?”

Isabelle uttered an entirely indignant sound. Her father laughed, blast him. “Seems to me that should be something that ought to be decided by her mate at this point.”

“No one will be beating anyone,” Isabelle insisted as Kichiro pulled the thermometer out of her mouth. “I’ve told you, and I’ve told _him_ , Papa. I’m _fine_.”

“Yeah, and we’ve seen what happens when we take your word for it, Isabelle.”

She grimaced at her father’s judicious use of her full name. “I don’t remember anyone else taking a sample,” she mumbled, sticking her arm out straight when Kichiro produced a blood collection kit from his bag.

“That’s because you were out cold,” Griffin muttered.

She narrowed her eyes on him, and he returned the gesture, completely nonplussed.

“Your grandfather brought over someone he trusted, and they sent me the results,” Kichiro explained as he carefully drew two vials of blood.

“You told Grandpa, too?” she asked, shaking her head at Griffin as she tried not to feel completely betrayed.

“No, _I_ did,” Kichiro stated. “Now drink this.”

Eyeing the nondescript bottle he shoved under her nose, she was reluctant to take it. “What is it?”

“Keh! It’s water. You’re bordering on being dehydrated, so unless you want me to hook you up to an IV, you’ll—”

“Okay, okay,” she broke in, grabbing the water and carelessly slugging it back. “I’m drinking, see?” she said as she dashed the back of her hand over her lips.

Kichiro scowled at her. “I’m going to go test this,” he remarked as he slipped the tubes of blood into a transport case. “Keep an eye on her?”

Griffin grunted but didn’t say anything else.

“Have her drink more water, and make sure she eats something. It shouldn’t take more than a couple hours, and I’ll check her again when I get back.”

With a nod, Griffin turned, probably to hunt down food that he knew she’d hate just to torture her a little more.

“Papa,” she began when Griffin was gone. “I—”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t say another damn thing, Isabelle,” he interrupted with a furious glance. “I’m so mad at you right now that it’s not even funny.”

Snapping her mouth closed on the rest of her sentence, she heaved a sigh as her gaze fell to the half-empty bottle in her hands.

Satisfied that he’d made his point, Kichiro grabbed his bag and strode out of the room.

It was entirely stupid, wasn’t it? They were all making entirely too big a deal out of it. After all, she was fine—a little sleepy, to be sure, but fine, and if that proved out to be the only real side effect, then she’d be happy. Of course there had been a risk, but she’d been reasonably certain that she was safe enough or she never would have dosed herself. She knew that, and yet . . .

‘ _Maybe you were a little too hasty, Bitty. After all, you know damn well that your father isn’t the kind to overreact for no reason_.’

‘ _Hasty? I’d been working on this research for almost a year!_ ’

‘ _But you said, yourself: what if there were side effects that you hadn’t anticipated? Do you really think your father would be so angry at you if you’d at least have had someone else here to watch out for you?_ ’

‘. . . _Griffin was here_.’

Her youkai sighed. ‘ _Griffin was here, yes, but you know as well as I do that Griffin isn’t a medical doctor_.’

She wrinkled her nose and drank the rest of the water.

‘ _Okay, okay, I get it. Bad Isabelle. Even you’re against me_.’

‘ _Don’t be stupid. I’m part of you, and you know it, and I’m not against you, but think about it. Don’t you think that you probably scared the hell out of that poor man—the man you say is your mate?_ ’

‘ _Yeah, well, tell him that, will you? He says I’m not_.’

‘ _Way to quibble the incidentals, Isabelle_.’

Slowly, she shook her head and smothered a yawn as she tried not to look at the fluffy pillow propped against the arm of the sofa that was inviting her. ‘ _Maybe a few more minutes_ . . .’ she thought as she curled up and closed her eyes once more.

She was asleep again when Griffin strode back into the living room with a plate of food five minutes later.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“Well, well, well . . . aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

Breaking into a very rare but very real smile, Gunnar’s gaze to lock with those of his mother as Sierra descended the stairs in the house where Gunnar had spent the years of his youth. “Mother . . . you look well.”

Rolling her eyes at the perceived formality of his greeting, she hurried over to hug him and he leaned down to let her kiss his cheek. “Since when have you ever called me ‘mother’?” she complained.

A warm chuckle rumbled out of him, and Gunnar relented. “How have you been, Mama?”

“I’d be better if my children would remember my cell phone number,” she hinted.

Gunnar shrugged. “I apologize. I’ve been a little busy.”

“I get it; I get it. Too busy for your old mama, right?”

“Never too busy for you,” he assured her. “Is Father around?”

Sierra shuffled over to straighten the cushions on the sofa. “I should have known,” she remarked mildly.

“I simply needed to talk to him, and I swear I’ll spend time with you before I have to go back. How does dinner sound?”

Biting her lip, she seemed to ponder his offer. “Dinner? My choice?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll have to check my calendar,” she quipped. “As for your father, I believe he’s in his study. I think your grandfather’s here, too . . .”

“Perfect,” Gunnar replied, already turning to walk away.

He didn’t miss his mother’s soft sigh as he strode down the hallway toward the small den, and he didn’t bother to knock when he reached the closed door, either.

“Mamoruzen,” Toga greeted, standing up and hurrying around his desk.

Gunnar offered his father and grandfather a low bow in greeting. “Mother said that you were back here,” he replied.

“You’re here on business, I take it?” Sesshoumaru asked as he settled into one of the two chairs facing Toga’s desk.

Gunnar accepted the glass of mineral water that his father handed him before he returned to his desk once more. “Kind of,” he replied as he sank into the vacant chair. “It’s about Izzy’s research. You’ve heard of it, ne?”

Toga shot Sesshoumaru a quick glance before nodding once. “I have,” he agreed.

Taking a moment to sip the mineral water, Gunnar sat up a little straighter before he continued. “Then you know that it’s highly classified. We can’t trust just anyone with that sort of knowledge, and that presents quite a problem when it comes to testing it.”

“Understood,” Toga said slowly as he sat back in his chair, running his fingertips around the rim of his glass idly. “But why do you want to talk to me about this?”

“The way I see it,” he said slowly, carefully, measuring his words for the best way to let his father know that he really had thought this through, “I’m the best candidate for testing.”

Toga didn’t look surprised. If anything, he looked like Gunnar had simply confirmed what he’d already figured. Letting out a deep breath, Toga stood and wandered over to the windows that overlooked the front yard. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?” he finally asked.

Feeling like a pup caught spying at the girls in the shower at school under his grandfather’s careful scrutiny, Gunnar reined in the perverse desire to fidget. “I think it’s the best one, given the circumstances, yes.”

“And if something were to happen to you?” Toga countered mildly.

“Then you and Mother could have another son.”

That answer earned him a wholly austere stare from his father. “Don’t be cute, Mamoruzen. I’m serious.”

“As am I, Father,” Gunnar replied without hesitation. “I am the best choice. I’m hanyou, I understand both the significance of the project as well as the need for absolute secrecy, I do not have the protection of a blood bond with a miko, and I do not have a mate.”

“And you’re the next tai-youkai of Japan,” Toga reminded him.

“I realize that. Do you really believe that I have not considered this?”

“Of course not,” Toga replied with a heavy sigh. “I still don’t think this is a good idea.”

Leveling his even gaze at his father, Gunnar tried to read his expression. Toga’s features were drawn in a deep scowl: impossible to discern. “Are you speaking as the tai-youkai or as my father?” he finally asked.

“Both!” Toga snapped then sighed as he dropped into his chair once more. “Both,” he repeated quietly.

“And you would rather that I sit back and allow someone else—someone without a vested interest in this—to take my place? What kind of tai-youkai would that make me, Father? What kind of leader? Expecting someone else to do this because it’s what? Too dangerous? Too . . . reckless? So I should just sit on my ass and do nothing when we all know that I am the best candidate because one day I will be tai-youkai?” Leaning forward long enough to set his glass on the polished surface of the desk, he shook his head adamantly. “Cain allowed his son—his heir—to be a hunter for a time, and I daresay the risk he took was a far sight greater than the testing of this serum when all the indications are that it should be fairly safe.”

“I’m not Cain,” Toga reminded Gunnar.

“You’re right,” Gunnar agreed. “You’re not, and I am not stupid. I know the risk I’m taking, and I am not afraid.”

Toga lowered his chin for a moment, sighing long and low, and when he raised his head again, it was to level a look at his father. He stared at him for a minute then sighed again. “You think he’s right,” he concluded.

Sesshoumaru nodded once. “Considering the alternative . . .”

Gunnar shifted his gaze between the two men. Somehow he had the distinct feeling that he was missing something. “What alternative?”

Toga didn’t look at him when he answered. “Isabelle already conducted a preliminary test.”

“What?”

“On herself,” Sesshoumaru added.

Gunnar’s eyes flared wide, and he shot to his feet. “The hell you say!” he growled.

“Kichiro is there now,” Sesshoumaru went on, ignoring Gunnar’s outburst completely. “I have every faith that the testing will go well.”

“Will he stay there?” Toga pressed.

“I can ask him,” Sesshoumaru agreed.

“Why did she do an idiotic thing like that?” Gunnar demanded. He’d always despised when his father and grandfather talked as though he weren’t in the room, and now was no different.

To his surprise, Sesshoumaru slowly turned to face him, and when he did, he had a very vague smile on his face though Gunnar would hardly call it a look of amusement. “I would suppose she did it for the same reasons that you wish to: she did not want to test the serum on someone else.”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

It had been three days.

Kichiro scanned the horizon without really seeing anything. He was tired, damn it—bordering on exhausted—himself. Unwilling to leave his daughter’s side for longer than it took to run to the lab and test samples of her blood he drew daily, he knew in the back of his mind that he might be behaving irrationally since she really wasn’t showing any averse effects, aside from the overwhelming exhaustion that kept her asleep most of the time. It wasn’t exactly unwarranted, however. Her body was trying to fend off the inoculation that she hadn’t needed, and to that end, it was easier to combat if she was resting.

She’d been quite a bit more alert yesterday, though, and that was a good sign. Having discovered to his relief that all the levels were slowly going back to normal again, he knew damn well that the knowledge was tempering the rage he’d suffered since he’d received the phone call about his idiot pup’s rash decision.

Still, it had bothered him that she was sleeping again when he got back to Griffin’s house after the first round of testing. From what the bear-youkai had said, she’d crashed again just after he’d left for the lab.

It simply made no sense to him. Isabelle was Kagome’s granddaughter. She ought to have known that this serum wouldn’t do a damn thing for her; that it could easily do more harm than good. Even still, she hadn’t bothered to run it past him, to ask his opinion on what she’d thought to do. Figured, didn’t it? She had to have realized that he’d never, ever think that it was a good idea, after all . . .

“So how is she?”

Kichiro sighed and glanced down at the now-tepid mug of coffee he’d been holding for the better part of an hour as he sat on the porch steps of Griffin’s house. “Her blood work is looking better,” he replied as he returned his gaze to the late afternoon sky.

Griffin grunted and slowly sat beside him. “G-good,” he muttered, hunching his shoulders as his shaggy hair fell forward to hide his face from view.

“She’s not always this stupid,” Kichiro went on in a completely conversational if not somewhat contrite tone.

“She’s not stupid at all,” Griffin said quickly. “That’s why I can’t understand why she did it.”

Scratching the back of his head as he set the mug aside, Kichiro sighed again. “She’s like her mama; that’s why. Thinks with her heart instead of her head sometimes. She didn’t want to test the stuff on anyone else without having a good feel as to what could happen in worst case scenario, so she tested it on herself. She didn’t want to take that risk with someone else. Who knows? Her mama might have done the same thing.”

“Sounds like she shouldn’t be a researcher.”

Kichiro shook his head. “Not true. She just needs to be more careful.”

Griffin grunted but didn’t argue.

“She’s always been that way. I doubt she’ll change now. She’s always tried to do things for others, taken too much upon herself. Sometimes it works for her; other times, it doesn’t. I suppose that’s the way of it with most things. You’re probably the best thing for her, you know.”

Griffin shot him a questioning look—an almost frightened sort of look. “I doubt that,” he muttered as he ducked his head a little lower, his face hidden once more in the shadows of his hair.

“No, I mean it. From what I’ve seen, you’re perfect for her—a calming sort of influence—exactly what she needs in a mate,” Kichiro went on.

“She doesn’t need a . . . a mate,” he mumbled. “She needs a _warden_.”

“Maybe,” Kichiro agreed, wisely hiding his amusement at the bear-youkai’s obvious discomfort. “But you care about her, don’t you?”

Griffin didn’t answer. Shooting to his feet, he stepped off the porch and paced the length of the sidewalk as he slowly shook his head. “Sh-She . . . I-I . . . Well, she . . .”

“It’s all right. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

The bear-youkai spared Kichiro a dark look before he resumed his pacing again.

No doubt about it, he was an interesting one. While Kichiro knew more than Dr. Marin likely realized, he was certain that he didn’t know the entire story, but judging from the youkai’s reactions, Kichiro didn’t figure he was too far off in assuming that Isabelle had been right in the beginning and that Griffin really was her mate. Worried out of his mind was a good way to describe him. Marin didn’t look like he’d gotten a good night’s sleep in quite a while, and yet he doggedly refused to leave Isabelle’s side, either. It was as though he feared that she’d somehow slip away from him if he gave in to the physical need to rest, and given what Kichiro _did_ know about the man’s past, he couldn’t say that he could really blame him for that.

“Anyway, there’s no need to worry too much now,” Kichiro went on, deciding that it was better to change the subject before Griffin decided he needed to run far and run fast to escape the current conversation.

“W-Wor—? I’m not worried,” Griffin stammered, his cheeks pinking noticeably despite the scars that marred half of his face.

Kichiro nodded, figuring that calling him on the blatant lie wasn’t really worth the trouble. “Well, I’ve been told that there’s been a volunteer to test the research—someone who will show results.”

Griffin swung around to face him as his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Who?” he asked slowly.

“My nephew,” he admitted. “Mamoruzen—Gunnar.”

Griffin snorted and shook his head. “She won’t go for that,” he said, nodding in the general direction of the house.

“She doesn’t have a choice. He’s the best candidate, and even his grandfather agrees.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think I’ll be the one to tell her that,” Griffin stated.

“I figured that he could tell her,” Kichiro intoned since he figured just as Griffin had that Isabelle might not be very pleased about this idea.

Griffin heaved a sigh as he rubbed the back of his neck in a completely weary sort of way. “I just wish she’d get done with this . . . this . . . this bullshit.”

Kichiro nodded, understanding what Griffin meant: the toll it was taking on her—on them. It also reminded him of something else that Cain had mentioned, and with a frown, he cleared his throat. “Cain tells me that Baby-Belle might be in some sort of danger.”

Stopping abruptly as though he’d slammed straight into a brick wall, Griffin shot Kichiro an almost guilty sort of glance. “Yeah, but . . . well . . . I don’t have any real proof. It’s just . . . Whoever broke into her apartment and attacked Charlie . . . They didn’t take anything other than her laptop. It wasn’t a robbery.”

“Yeah. I knew that,” he admitted.

Griffin shook his head, a completely confused air surrounding him. “So why didn’t you come sooner?”

“Cain told me that you said you would take care of her. Isn’t that right?”

Griffin reddened again but nodded. “She’s safe,” he muttered.

“That aside, everyone thought it would draw too much attention to the situation. After all, it stands to reason that even if someone were after the research, they can’t have figured out where she is or that you’re helping her—at least, they haven’t yet.”

Griffin considered that then nodded again.

“You will protect her, won’t you?” Kichiro asked, his voice dropping with the emotion that he simply couldn’t repress. She was his little girl, and while he understood the precautions and agreed with them for the most part, in his mind, she was still the daughter that he’d sheltered and protected, himself.

Griffin seemed reluctant to meet Kichiro’s gaze, but he finally did, clearing his throat as he grimaced, as though what he was about to say was costing him so much more than just a few paltry words. “I . . . I will,” he promised.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final_** **_Thought_** **_from_** **_Kichiro_** :  
>  _I thought only boys inherited the baka gene_ …


	62. Friction

Blinking incredulously as she shifted her gaze from her father to her cousin and back again, Isabelle shook her head and uttered a terse snort. “Okay, Mamoruzen. Joke’s over. Very funny,” she muttered, rolling her eyes heavenward as she whipped around to make a grand exit full of haughty indignation. At least Griffin wasn’t there to add in his two-cents on the matter. After repeated reassurances that she was feeling just fine and her father’s promise that he wouldn’t leave the house while the man was gone since he was fairly positive that Isabelle would only get into more mischief if left to her own devices, Griffin had finally given in and gone to work.

Kichiro caught her arm and swung her about to face them again. “It’s not a joke,” he informed her quietly.

Heaving a longsuffering sigh, Isabelle slowly shook her head again. “I _can’t_ test this stuff on him,” she ground out from between clenched teeth.

“I appreciate your concern, but I’ve made up my mind,” Gunnar remarked in an acerbic tone of voice. “Besides, I’m the more logical choice, don’t you think?”

Narrowing her eyes, she pinned her cousin with a fulminating glower. “No, I don’t ‘ _think’_ ,” she shot back. “You’re going to be the next tai-youkai, and—”

“Damn straight, you don’t,” he cut in coldly, amber eyes flashing dangerously, “and you have absolutely no say in the matter. It’s been decided, so you might as well leave it go.”

Rolling her eyes since she’d had just about enough of everyone and their uncle coming down on her for her decision to do the initial test to herself, she snorted indelicately and shot her father a dark look. “Papa, you know as well as I do that this is not a good idea.”

Kichiro took a moment to consider his response as Gunnar shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeve. “I understand what you’re saying,” he finally allowed, “but it’s his choice, and he’s made up his mind. He knows the risks, and he knows what could happen. He’s already discussed it with both Toga and Sesshoumaru, and . . .” Trailing off as he shook his head, he frowned at her when he finally continued. “He’s right. He is the best candidate for the testing.”

“How did you come up with that load of malarkey?” she spat, crossing her arms over her chest as she glared from one man to the other and back again.

Gunnar snorted but didn’t look up from his task. “As the son of the current tai-youkai and as my grandfather’s—the Inu no Taisho’s—grandson, I am one of the strongest hanyou alive, wouldn’t you agree? Certainly the strongest of those you could test this on. What might hurt a lesser hanyou will not hurt me.”

She wanted to smack him for that bit of logic; she really did. Unfortunately, she could also understand the truth behind the arrogant claims even if she wanted nothing more than to blow a huge hole right in the middle of his condescending theory. “You’re such an ass, Mamoruzen,” she muttered, still unwilling to admit that he was right.

He was completely nonplussed by her assertions. “You need to do this while my youkai blood is at its highest level; is that right?”

Without taking her eyes off him, she slowly nodded.

He met her gaze and nodded, too. “Then today’s your lucky day.”

“That’s absolutely crazy,” she insisted with a stubborn shake of her head. “First of all, I haven’t even gotten any preliminary samples—”

“Uncle took them earlier,” he replied calmly.

“Secondly, I would need to figure the dosage that you need—”

“Which shouldn’t take long, should it?”

Stifling a throaty growl, she pulled away from her father’s grasp to pace across the room and back. “It’s not a good idea,” she protested, rubbing her forehead in utter exasperation.

“I agree,” Kichiro spoke up. “It’s a damn foolish one, if you ask me.” She shot Gunnar a smug if not completely insincere smile, but Kichiro went on. “But he’s also right, and even if you don’t like it, it’s out of your hands. Toga and Sesshoumaru have given their agreement. Even Cain thinks it’s the best alternative, though I’m inclined to disagree with _him_ purely on principle . . .”

“Figure out what dosage I need, and give me the shot, Izzy,” Gunnar said.

She heaved a sigh and plopped down on the sofa. The last thing she wanted to do was to comply. “You’re _not_ the best candidate,” she grumbled as she flipped the latches on her attaché case and dug out the notebook where she’d written the initial ratios for the amount of serum to administer.

“On the contrary, Izzy. I’m hanyou. I share none of Aunt Gome’s blood. I don’t have a mate . . . and I’m willing.”

Kichiro’s cell phone trilled, and he glanced at the caller ID. “Figure the dosage, Baby-Belle,” he commanded as he turned to stride out of the living room to take the call.

“This is madness,” she muttered as she started scratching new ratios on the page. “Mamoruzen—”

“I’ve seen what you considered to be a better alternative, Izzy,” he remarked dryly. “What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

“Don’t you _dare_ start in on me, too,” she shot back, sparing a moment to glower at him as he crossed his arms over his chest and met her gaze with a condescending scowl. “I did what I thought was best, and—”

“And what? You’d do it again? Is that what you were about to say?”

Snapping her mouth closed as her cheeks pinked since that was exactly what she was about to say, Isabelle shook her head instead, shifting her attention back to the notes once more. “Shut up while I’m doing this, won’t you? Don’t want me to give you the wrong dosage, you know.”

Gunnar strode over to her and slammed his hand down on the open notebook. “I think you’ll hear me out,” he said in a deadly quiet voice.

“I’ve already heard it,” she snapped, which was the gospel truth since her father had finally had his go at her earlier in the day. He’d used the word ‘stupid’ a number of times . . . “So I should have had someone on standby; I get that. I’ll be sure to do that the next time.”

“Are you really that pig-headed?” Gunnar demanded. “You don’t honestly believe that it’s solely about the testing, do you?”

Shooting to her feet, she glared defiantly back at her cousin. “What else could it possibly be about?”

Gunnar arched an eyebrow and leaned back to level a calculated stare at her. “What, indeed?” he parried.

“Just because the serum won’t do a thing for my immunities doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t test it for potential side effects!” she insisted hotly. “Why can’t any of you understand that?”

Gunnar snorted loudly, his eyes narrowing as he stared at her in abject irritation. “Because it isn’t about that! Kami, Izzy, are you really that dense?”

“About _what?_ ”

“Your _mate!_ ”

She jerked back as though he’d struck her, the bulk of her anger fizzling out at the simple mention of that particular word. “I don’t have one,” she admitted in a quiet voice.

Gunnar rolled his eyes. “What do you mean, you don’t have one? Aren’t you the one who is constantly saying that Marin is your mate?”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t seem to want the same thing, and you know as well as I do that it takes two,” she retorted.

“Don’t give me that,” Gunnar said, waving a hand dismissively. “Now you’re simply being childish.”

“I’m not!” she insisted with a petulant frown.

“You are,” Gunnar shot back. “Can’t say I blame him, though. Who would want a mate who gives his feelings on the matter so little regard?”

Stomping over to plant herself directly in front of Gunnar, Isabelle felt her temper soar in a torrent of anger so temerarious that she had to dig her claws into her palms to keep from striking him. “I have always considered his feelings above everything— _everything!_ ”

“You haven’t,” Gunnar argued, “or do you honestly think that he’s just pissed off at you for making a bad judgment call?”

Tossing her hands up in the air in an entirely frustrated sort of way, she spun away from Gunnar since looking at him was only succeeding in fueling the anger that was twisting her stomach. “Since when do you take his side in anything?”

Grabbing her arm and jerking her around to face him, Gunnar’s eyes were absolutely flashing as he stared her down. “It’s not about taking sides, baka! It’s about the number of times you’ve tried to preach to me about what I should do or think and then you up and do something even more stupid. I might be an ass—I might even be a bastard, but you know, at least I’m consistent! At least _I_ don’t turn hypocrite when I don’t get my way!”

“What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?” she gritted out quietly. If she yelled, she’d lose the slight hold she still held over her temper, and she knew it.

“Think about it,” he snarled, giving her a shake for good measure. “Lost his entire family, didn’t he? Isn’t that what you told me? So what do you suppose he’s thinking now?” When she didn’t answer right away, he uttered a low growl. “I’ll tell you what he’s thinking. He’s thinking that this woman who waltzes into his life proclaiming to be his mate whether he wants it or not is just toying with him! The one person who has any chance at all of breaking through the solitude that he _thought_ he wanted is so reckless—so _stupid_ —that she’d test something out on herself that could have taken her away from him, too!”

It took a minute for Gunnar’s assertions to sink in, and when they did, she couldn’t help the grimace that surfaced on her features. Too caught up in her own indignant anger that everyone would treat her as though she were little more than a child when she’d thought that she knew what she was doing, it hadn’t once crossed her mind, had it? The true motivation behind Griffin’s anger, his concern . . . was he really afraid that something would happen to her . . .?

He was, and she knew it. The understanding that she should have figured out before left a nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach, a sickened churning that she could possibly have been so completely and utterly selfish.

Gunnar must have seen that he’d made his point, because he let go of her arm and heaved a sigh. “You said you love him, didn’t you? Why don’t you try acting like it then?”

Wincing at the deadly accuracy of Gunnar’s words, Isabelle wrapped her arms around her stomach and couldn’t quite bring herself to meet his accusing gaze. “That’s not what I meant to do,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

“Meant to or not, Izzy . . .” Gunnar trailed off.

Rubbing her forehead, she bit her lip and blinked to alleviate the hotness that had set in just behind her eyes. “I just wanted to make sure that the serum was safe,” she murmured.

“There’re better ways to do that than to test it on yourself.”

She sighed again but didn’t answer.

“Now are we going to do this or what?”

“Mamoruzen . . .”

He didn’t move to face her though he did turn his head to level a sober look at her as he slowly shook his head. “It’s out of your hands, Izzy. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Stubborn fool,” she muttered, sinking onto the sofa once more to resume her calculations.

Gunnar turned toward the window to wait.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Alastair slammed his fist down on the button to end the phone call and sank his teeth into the inside of his cheek to keep from growling in absolute frustration. It was inconceivable, wasn’t it? How could it possibly be that the people he’d found to translate the research materials only had a few paltry pages done despite the months that they’d been in possession of the text?

‘ _Unacceptable!_ ’ he fumed, tapping his claws against the desk top as he struggled to maintain a level of calm. Too used to having results quickly because of the fear that he could inspire otherwise, this waiting game was something completely foreign to him; something wholly different, and he didn’t like it; not at all.

Worse, though, was the suspicion that had been growing slowly over time. He’d been assured, of course, that he had the best of the best in the field of linguistics working on the translations, and it grated on his nerves that a one of the specialists was human. That was inconsequential in the long run. Alastair didn’t rightfully care what the human learned as long as he continued to work. Humans were expendable, weren’t they? No better than unsightly vermin that infested the earth . . . Still, he had to wonder and not for the first time exactly who was working with the Zelig’s granddaughter.   Not knowing exactly how far ahead of the game she was annoyed the hell out of him, after all.

‘ _Damn those Carradines_ . . .’ he growled to himself. If they had simply been smart about it, he’d already have had the entirety of the research at his disposal. ‘ _And those fools would still be alive today_ . . .’

The soft buzz of the telephone interrupted his musings, and he shifted his cold gaze to the caller ID unit before deciding to accept it. “What is it?” he demanded in lieu of an actual greeting.

“Afternoon, my lord,” Kent Murphy intoned cordially.

“Dispense with the pleasantries,” Alastair said stiffly.

Murphy sighed. “As you wish. I was calling because I’ve been looking into . . . something that might be of interest to you.”

“I abhor games of cat and mouse,” he reminded the youkai.

Murphy cleared his throat in a decidedly nervous sort of way. “Of course, of course. Absolutely, my lord . . . it’s just that one of the specialists that you have working on the translation of your, um, I daresay, project?”

Alastair grunted, prompting Murphy to continue.

“She made mention in passing that there might well be someone more adept in handling something of this magnitude.”

“If that’s so, then why didn’t you bring him to my attention in the first place?” Alastair demanded.

Murphy fell silent for a moment as though he were collecting his thoughts or considering the best way to state whatever reason he was to offer as an apology for his oversight. “Well, there’s the rub . . . to be quite frank, I’m having distinct difficulty in even procuring the man’s name.”

“Meaning?” Alastair growled, his patience wearing thin as he rolled his hand in a vain effort to hurry Murphy along.

“ _Meaning_ ,” Murphy repeated philosophically, “that he apparently wishes to remain under the radar, so to speak.”

“So who is this enigma?”

Murphy chuckled a bit uneasily at the nastiness underlying Alastair’s tone. “I . . . I don’t know, my lord. That is to say,” he hurried on when Alastair uttered an irritated growl, “Dr. Falley—the one who mentioned him—couldn’t remember his name. All she could recall was that she believes that he teaches at one of the universities on the eastern coast of the United States. Unfortunately, I haven’t able to garner much information on him. None of the universities, it seems, have their professors’ home addresses on public file. Security issues, I would wager . . .”

Considering the information for a moment, Alastair licked his lips thoughtfully. “And if this . . . man . . . wishes for this anonymity, then how is it that one of the specialists came to know of him?”

“Simple enough. She attended a seminar a while back, and she met him there. Quiet, she said . . . barely speaks, and doesn’t like to have attention lavished upon him . . . and he is youkai. Anyway, I called around to see if I could pinpoint this conference where Dr. Falley met him, but she couldn’t rightfully remember what year it was.”

“Youkai . . .” Alastair’s gaze lit up as he slowly nodded. “Perhaps _he_ is the one in the Zelig’s hip pocket,” he mused more to himself than to Murphy.

“I doubt it,” Murphy intoned thoughtfully. “It seems to me that one so unassuming would try to avoid drawing notice, and if he really is the specialist that Dr. Falley implied, it would make sense that he ought to be more renowned, don’t you agree? No, I think that it’s not simply protecting his privacy that he’s about. It seems to me as though he’s gone out of his way to remain _invisible_ to the tai-youkai.”

“Thank you, Murphy,” Alastair said, his claw tapping the disconnect button. “I trust you will continue to delve into this matter?”

“As you wish,” Murphy assured him.

“Very good.” A slow smile spread over his features as he ended the call. “A linguistics specialist,” he repeated in the empty quiet.

And then he chuckled.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“Hey, Dr. Marin? Do you have a minute?”

Glancing up from the papers that he was stuffing into his briefcase, Griffin blinked and frowned at the girl who had addressed him as she leaned in the doorway of his office. A junior who was majoring in language, she was normally very quiet. In fact, Griffin couldn’t actually remember hearing her speak before . . . “Uh, yeah, Miss Thompson,” he mumbled, unconsciously tilting his head to the side to minimize her view of his scarred cheek. “Wh-what do you need?”

Offering him a hesitant, almost shy, smile, she re-shouldered her book sling and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Melissa’s fine, and it’s about my paper,” she began. “The one on the different Abenaki dialects?”

Scratching his head as he struggled to recall the paper in question, he nodded once. So wrapped up in Isabelle and her latest bit of irrational behavior, he had only bothered to grade the papers with a smidgeon of the attention that they probably deserved. “What about it?” he asked.

She cleared her throat, her cheeks pinking slightly as she shuffled her feet once more and shrugged in a deliberate attempt at nonchalance. “I just wondered why you gave me such a low mark.”

“Let me see your paper, please,” he said.

It took her a minute to dig it out of her bag, and she glanced over it before handing it to him.

Griffin scowled at the paper as he sank into the chair behind the desk, digging into his breast pocket for his reading glasses. Reading the paper over, he slowly shook his head since he was pretty certain that he’d actually been a bit lenient when grading her paper, in the first place. She leaned in close, reading over his shoulder, and he could feel her eyes scanning his features as though she were trying to figure out what he was thinking before he said anything. “You missed some key comparisons,” he informed her as he handed the paper back, frowning at her close proximity.

She nodded, her dark green eyes clouding over as she frowned. “If I re-wrote the paper, do you think that you could change my grade? I’d be happy to do more research or whatever you wanted, but this . . . this will drag my grade down, and if it drops too much, I could lose my scholarship . . .”

He could almost smell the anxiety radiating off of her, and he sighed. On the one hand, he understood her plight. On the other, it would hardly be fair to allow her a second chance. Even then, one paper wasn’t really going to lower her grade point average enough to cost her a scholarship, he was certain. “If I let you do that, then I’d have to let everyone else do that, too,” he mumbled with a shake of his head. “I’m sorry.”

She braced one hand on the arm of his chair, the other on the desktop and leaned toward him. The deep ‘v’ neckline fell away from her body, and it was all Griffin could do to keep from blushing deep red as he shifted his eyes to the side. “Please,” she blurted, her cheeks pinking a little more as her light brown ponytail fell over her shoulder and swished into his face with her sudden movement. “Okay, then . . .” she began, her voice taking on a silkier tone, “maybe some . . . extra credit . . .?”

He pulled his arm away gently and started to turn away. “Extra—?” he began only to cut himself off when she leaned in a little closer—close enough for him to feel the heat of her body—close enough to smell the lingering trace of some sort of mint on her breath.

He couldn’t rightfully credit what was happening. It all seemed to happen so fast, and yet there was a surreal sense of lethargy wrapped up in it, too. Before he could make sense out of what she was doing, she moved in close to him, her lips pressing against his as her arms slipped around his neck, her fingers digging into the hair at the nape of his neck. Her tongue lapped against his lips, and he stood, shocked, unable to decipher exactly what was happening. A low growl escaped him as his mind started to process what was happening, as his entire being seemed to rebel against the understanding that should have come much quicker than it did.

Mistaking the sound as acquiescence, Melissa pressed herself closer, her breasts rubbing against his chest through the shamefully thin fabric of her blouse. The sensation was horrifying, wrapped up in the idea that he couldn’t control the situation, and for the briefest of seconds, he nearly panicked.

A pair of sapphire colored eyes flashed before him, and he gasped, giving Melissa a little shove to get her off of him; away from him. “Wh-what were you—that’s not—Don’t do that again,” he growled as he dragged the back of his hand over his lips and pushed himself to his feet.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she rubbed her hip where she’d impacted against the corner of the desk. “I-I’m sorry,” she choked out in a strangled sort of way.

He couldn’t control the shaking in his hands as he tugged at his collar and reached for his briefcase once more. “Y-your grade stands,” he muttered, brushing past her and hurrying toward the door.

Another teacher called out to him as he made his way toward the front of the building. A dull throbbing behind his eyes had kicked in, and he ignored the voice.

‘ _What . . . what did I . . .?_ ’ Even the clean scent in the air that always followed a good, heavy rain did little to dislodge the feeling of absolute revulsion that seemed to surge just below the surface of his skin. A slow sense of hysteria was creeping up on him; he could feel it tightening around him like a vise.

It seemed to take longer than normal to cross the campus. Refraining from the urge to break into a sprint as the first sharp pangs shot from his hip to his brain, Griffin kept moving, deliberately blanking his mind in a pathetic effort not to think about what he’d done.

It didn’t work. Grimacing as the familiar ache set in—deep within the very marrow of his bones—he doggedly kept walking, faster and faster as dire condemnations echoed through his head, ignoring the curious glances of the people he pushed past.

“Is . . . Isabelle . . .” he whispered, his lungs working in overdrive as he broke into a cold sweat. ‘ _What have I . . . done . . .?_ ’

Never good enough, and yet he’d dared to think . . . only a fool’s hope, maybe, and still . . . a fool’s dream for a foolish man . . .

What had happened? How had it gotten so far out of his control? Worse was the innate knowledge that grew within him: he’d allowed Melissa to kiss him, hadn’t he? He hadn’t stopped her fast enough, and he’d let her do it . . .

He’d _let_ her do it . . .

The bitterness of recrimination swelled inside him: an all too familiar friend that he’d come to know with all the confidence in the world. He’d allowed Melissa to kiss him, and that was sin enough.

Growing in abject disgust, Griffin moved faster, the ache in his body paling in comparison to the ache that threatened to encompass him completely; the ache of the spirit and the wracking sense of guilt.

How would he ever explain it to Isabelle? How could he look her in the eye after what he’d allowed to happen? How could he tell her that she couldn’t do stupid, careless things when he’d done the same—maybe worse?

How could he ever make her understand that he . . .?

Cutting off that thought as he veered down a street off his normal route, Griffin suddenly slumped against a high brick fence and sighed, letting his temple fall against the roughened clay. The ambient sounds of the town he knew blended together into a dull hum as he squeezed his eyes closed and ran a trembling hand over his face.

‘ _That you_ what, _Griffin?_ ’ his youkai asked quietly.

Shaking his head as though to brush aside the question, he couldn’t stand to answer.

‘ _Go on. No one else will hear you_.’

Pushing himself away from the wall to stagger a few steps to a faded and chipping wooden bench, he sat down, leaning forward with his saddened gaze trained on the cracked sidewalk below him. ‘ _I . . . can’t . . . not after_ . . .’

‘ _If you don’t admit it now, Griffin, you never will_.’

He understood the truth in those words, yet he still couldn’t bring himself to say it, not even to himself. ‘ _I . . . I kissed someone else . . . I . . . betrayed_ . . .’

‘ _You didn’t, you know, and she’ll know that, too. You know damn well that she understands even when you don’t think she ought to_.’

Wincing at that thought, another one whispered to him. Sure, she forgave him, or more to the point, she understood him . . . Still, how could he ask her to listen to him one more time? How could he possibly tell her . . .? How many times was he supposed to expect for her to understand? When, exactly, would the grace by which she was able to do that run out?

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Isabelle_** :  
>  _… Testing on Mamoruzen …?_


	63. Memories

“How’s his fever?”

Isabelle waited for the thermometer to beep and frowned at the digital readout as her face contorted in a grimace. “One hundred three point seven,” she replied with a shake of her head. “He vomited a little while ago,” she went on. “Then he fell asleep.”

Kichiro leaned over Gunnar, gently pushing his eyelid up and shining a penlight directly into them to check dilation. “That fever worries me,” he commented at length as Isabelle wrung a washcloth out in the porcelain bowl she’d brought in earlier. “We need to bring it down.”

As if in response to their softly uttered words, Gunnar moaned and kicked at the blankets that Isabelle had spread over him. “I looked the ratios over forward and backward, Papa,” she mumbled, carefully wiping Gunnar’s face. “It was right on the paper.”

“Of course it was right on the paper,” Kichiro said as he plopped into the chair beside the bed. “It’s _always_ right on the paper. The problem is that there tends to be variables that you’re not anticipating. It’s part of being a researcher.”

“I . . . I know,” she murmured as she swished the washcloth around the bowl again.

“How did his blood work look?”

She took her time wringing out the cloth and folding it over to place on Gunnar’s forehead. “It looked good . . . in fact, it looked exactly like it should though his antibody cell count is a little high, but not high enough to account for the fever.”

Kichiro pondered that for a few minutes, his expression one that Isabelle knew. He always got a certain look in his eyes whenever he was trying to think things through. “It makes sense,” he said at length as he rubbed his face as though he were exhausted. “You took that sample before he was purified. His levels might have looked good because his body was starting to change. When the spiritual power that balances out the youkai blood rose too high, his body’s natural defense was to suppress his youki.”

She nodded slowly, seeing the logic in her father’s words, and she sighed. “I’ll do another blood workup in the morning,” she said.

“Sounds good,” Kichiro said, uttering a soft sound of agreement as he stared at her.

She didn’t look to verify it. She could feel his gaze on her as she fussed with the coverlet and replaced the cloth with a fresh one. “So, Papa,” she finally ventured when he remained silent, “why do you smell odd?”

His answer was a long, drawn out sigh. “I thought I smelled pretty normal today,” he hedged.

Isabelle shrugged. “Yes, and no,” she agreed a little too neutrally. “I mean, you smell more like yourself than you have, but something’s still off, and I know damn well that it isn’t my nose.”

“I was testing the scent-tabs,” he finally admitted. “They might work a little too well.”

“Mama didn’t like it?”

He shot her a dark look at that stated plainly that he believed his daughter was too perceptive by far. “Nope.”

“Did you tell her what you were doing?” she asked with a pointed lifting of the eyebrow.

“Of course I did,” he replied, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “We simply failed to take into consideration exactly how keen our senses of smell are. Neither of us actually thought that the drastic change in scent would be that big an issue. Guess we should have.”

Isabelle grimaced and made a face. “Mama’s pretty upset then,” she guessed.

Kichiro nodded. “Yes, she is . . . but she _did_ know exactly what I was testing, and she knew what to do if something unforeseen had happened.”

“I know,” she muttered, her cheeks pinking as she smoothed Gunnar’s hair—shockingly pale, a lovely shade of strawberry blonde, just like his mother’s—off of his forehead. “Why didn’t I end up like this?” she asked, more to herself than to her father. She’d taken the same ratio, hadn’t she? What was the difference?

“Could be that the part of your blood that came from your grandmother assimilated the rest of it,” Kichiro mused.

Isabelle nodded slowly. “So since I was born this way, my body has a higher tolerance for grandma’s blood.”

“That’d be my guess.”

She heard the front door open and close in the distance but didn’t move. Griffin was late, but she couldn’t say that she’d actually been worried since she’d been a bit too preoccupied when Gunnar had started showing signs of the transformation. Stuck in the human form that very few had ever seen, he’d be irritated enough that she’d seen him that way, in the first place, she figured.

With a low groan, Gunnar tossed fitfully before pushing himself up on his elbow. Isabelle reached for the small bucket she’d set beside the bed, barely positioning it before he heaved again. Grimacing and feeling completely helpless, she rubbed his back and pushed his hair out of the way and tried to remind herself that there wasn’t a lot that they could do. The first round of vomiting started just after she’d gotten him to take a couple ibuprofen tablets when his temperature had started its initial climb. Whether it was because of the serum or because his body simply wasn’t able to accommodate the drug, she wasn’t sure, but she certainly wasn’t going to give him another dose unless she absolutely had to.

His hand was trembling when he took the glass of tepid water that Kichiro offered to him, and he swished around a couple mouthfuls to rinse and spat the water out before flopping onto his back as a violent bout of shivers assailed him.

“Isabelle, I—” Cutting himself off abruptly as he stepped into the room and stopped short, Griffin’s eyes widened just for a moment before his trademark scowl was securely back in place. Shaking his head in obvious confusion, he nodded curtly toward the bed. “Who’s she?” he demanded.

Isabelle blinked, unsure whether he was being facetious or not, but the man looked entirely too perplexed for him to be feinting it. “ _He’s_ Mamoruzen,” she replied dryly, tugging the blankets up over her cousin.

“Mamor—your _cousin?_ ” Griffin reiterated, his eyebrows disappearing under his shaggy bangs.

“Yes,” she replied as she dropped the washcloth into the basin and reached for the one that had been soaking.

“He’s _human_ ,” Griffin pointed out dubiously, “and he’s . . . well, he looks like a woman.”

Shaking the hair out of her face, Isabelle rolled her eyes but didn’t argue with Griffin since even she had to admit that her cousin was definitely what she’d have called ‘pretty’. His bone structure tended to be very refined, anyway, and even with his usual black hair and golden eyes that he’d inherited from his father, Gunnar was definitely pushing ‘pretty’ then, but as it was, with his mother’s fair coloring, _well_ . . . “He was purified,” she explained mildly.

Griffin didn’t comment on that. “I’ll, uh . . . I’ll start dinner,” he finally muttered before ducking out of the room.

Kichiro checked his watch and winced. “I need to go pick up your mother and sister at the airport, but I suppose that you’ve got things under control.”

Isabelle nodded. “Okay,” she agreed wanly, pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes with the back of a limp hand.

“Call me if you need me,” he told her. She felt the brush of his lips on her temple and leaned toward him in a token hug just before he hurried out of the room.

Gunnar’s face was pale, drawn, with ashy half-moons under his eyes, and though his breathing was light and shallow, he didn’t really seem uncomfortable, all things considered. “Damn fool,” she muttered quietly as she wiped his forehead with a dampened cloth again.

It was unsettling, wasn’t it, to see him that way? Lying in a bed and looking so helpless and worn . . . it wasn’t a sight that Isabelle could quite reconcile in her head. Why was it that the men in her family always seemed to much larger than life? She’d thought as much at different times before, but that idea had never been quite as palpable as it was in this particular instance. Gunnar, who had always been stronger than the others, able to stand alone without anyone else’s help and without caring what anyone else thought . . . She’d only seen him falter one time, and though it was years ago, she could remember feeling the same sense of desperation that she did now: the same sense of absolute helplessness, and just as she did back then, she’d wanted desperately to help him, but she hadn’t been able to do a thing but watch from the shadows . . .

 _Running through the forest, she thought she’d caught his scent. Still outraged on his behalf, she’d gone for a walk in hopes that she could calm down before she’d done something that he’d hate her for, like tell her grandfather exactly what was happening at school_.

 _He was catching ten kinds of hell, and all because he was hanyou set to one day become tai-youkai. It wasn’t his fault, and it didn’t make him any less worthy in her estimation. It didn’t matter to anyone in their family, did it? So why should it matter to some baka at school_?

 _And she had known that he was far more upset than he’d let on when they’d parted at the usual place on their way home from school. Though he tried to hide it, she’d known, and it had only served to deepen her distress that he’d felt as though he’d had to hide it, in the first place_.

 _Breaking through the forest, she’d closed in on his scent, biting her lip at the overwhelming sense of anger, of frustration in the rhythmic palpitations of his youki as she drew closer_.

 _She skidded to a stop, though, about to call out to him where he sat, hunkered down beside the shallow creek that traversed InuYasha’s Forest. With a gasp that she smothered with her hands, she watched in absolute horror as he reached up, as he dug his claws into the tiny black triangles that were his ears and yanked. The scent of his blood made her stomach churn, lurch in complete revulsion; the angry growl that slipped from him stayed her—the sound shifting from one of pure rage to one of a much deeper emotion—a sadness so encompassing that it shook her out of her shocked stupor, bringing tears to her eyes even as she struggled for any comprehension as to why he would have ever do such a thing to himself, and she’d understood on some level that the very last thing he’d want was for her to make her presence known_ . . .

 _So she’d ducked behind a tree, sinking to the ground as great sobs rose to choke her—tears that she shed because he couldn’t, and even at seven years old, she’d known that Mamoruzen was suffering far more than he’d ever let on_ . . .

“W-Water,” Gunnar gasped out, his papery voice cutting through the haze of memory.

Isabelle blinked and turned quickly, grabbing the glass of water and carefully helping him sit up to take a few small swallows. “Go back to sleep,” she told him softly as she set the glass aside and smoothed his hair off his face.

He didn’t even try to fight her as she gently pushed him back once more. His eyes slipped closed, and she heaved a tired sigh as she pushed the questions she still had about that night out of her mind. No matter how desperately she wanted answers, unless he brought it up, she’d probably never ask him about it . . .

It was going to be a long night . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Griffin methodically tossed the salad as Butt-Ugly rubbed against his shins, mewling plaintively in a not-so-gentle reminder that she thought she was hungry.

It had been one of the most difficult things he’d ever done, to walk through the door of his own home. He’d wandered around for the bulk of the afternoon, loathe to face Isabelle when he knew damn well that he needed to tell her what happened, if, for no other reason, than to assuage his own conscience that was eating him up inside.

And it hadn’t mattered how many times he’d gone over it in his head, there was no way to put a nice face on what he’d done. As much as he wanted to shirk the blame, he couldn’t. He’d let himself get trapped in that situation, hadn’t he? That was just as bad as instigating it, wasn’t it . . .?

The trouble was that he didn’t need to be brilliant to realize that her mind was fully focused on her cousin at the moment, not that he could rightfully blame her. He wasn’t sure exactly what might have caused Mamoruzen to have that sort of reaction to the serum, but given that she had insisted before that he was the last person she’d ever test it on, he didn’t doubt that she was feeling enough raw emotion as it was without him adding to her worries with the truth of what had happened.

No, he figured, he’d have to wait because as things stood, she’d only listen to a portion of what he needed to tell her, and then she’d probably do something stupid, like forgive him, and all because she hadn’t really heard what he was saying in the first place . . . ‘ _Damn woman, anyway_ . . .’

He almost tripped over the cat when he turned to retrieve the jar of roasted pecans off the counter to add to the salad, and he snorted, shoving the animal with his toes. “Move it, you big, fat lump of stupid,” he grumbled indelicately. The idiot ball of fur ran back to rub against his ankles a little more, and Griffin heaved a sigh.

“She loves you,” Isabelle said softly from the doorway. Leaning against the frame with a thin smile, her eyes were sad, and her lips quivered just the tiniest bit when he finally dared to meet her gaze.

He snorted and shrugged. “I sincerely doubt that,” he muttered, dumping a couple of handfuls of nuts into the salad. “Thought you weren’t going to test that stuff on your cousin.”

She sighed and pushed herself away from the doorway to pull a plate from the cupboard. “He talked it over with his father and grandfather, both of whom decided that he was the best candidate,” she admitted darkly as she scooped a lightly cooked fish filet off of the baking sheet. “I was overruled.”

“Told you,” he remarked though his tone lacked any actual hints of gloating. “Why’s he human?”

She shot him a tired sort of look and shook her head, her self-disgust a palpable thing. “That’s simple enough. The dosage was too high,” she replied, spooning a pile of steamed carrots onto the plate. “You know, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him as a human.”

“If I were that pretty when I was human, I’d hide, too,” Griffin commented darkly.

She laughed just a little, grabbing Griffin’s arm and tugging him toward the doorway. “Come on,” she coaxed when he tried to pull away. “I’m sorry I didn’t get your dinner made in time.” With a shake of her head and a wry grin meant to assure him that she was teasing, she shrugged. “Some mate I’d be, huh?”

Gritting his teeth at the genuine apology in her tone and the horrible joke she’d tried to make, Griffin shook his head and nodded at the plate. “You eat that,” he commanded, wondering vaguely exactly how she could manage to make him feel even more like an ogre than he already did when she was being nice. Guilt, he supposed as a deadly accurate memory of the kiss he hadn’t wanted flashed through his head.

“I’m not hungry,” she replied with a sigh as she slipped the plate onto the table in the spot where he always sat. “I’ll go get you a bowl of salad.”

He caught her arm and pulled her back before she could walk away. “You need to eat. You didn’t eat much last week,” he stated, pulling the chair out with one hand and pushing her into it with the other. He sighed. He hadn’t actually meant to remind her of the unpleasantness that had been prevalent in the house since her first experience with testing the serum. “You’d waste away, and then I’d be blamed for starving you,” he muttered. She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head, and with a little nod, she finally sat back. Griffin eyed her for a moment to make sure that she was going to stay put before lumbering back toward the kitchen to fill another plate.

“Yeah, I’m not eating that,” she said, pushing away the bowl of salad that he plunked onto the table next to her.

“Yes, you are,” he retorted evenly, slipping into the chair where she normally sat.

“We’ve talked about this before, Griffin,” she reminded him. “It’s green. Dogs don’t eat ‘ _green’_ anything.”

Rolling his eyes at her pouting remarks, he jabbed his fork into the salad and pointed it at her. “But you’re in a _bear’s_ house, and _bears_ like greens.”

Her face shifted into a little scowl as she tried to come up with something to counter that. It must not have worked because she offered a tiny, ‘ _hrmph’_ and poked at the fish with a fork.

They ate in silence for a while. Isabelle seemed completely distracted, not that Griffin could fault her for that. She seemed to jump at every little sound, and she’d barely touched her food when she pushed her plate away and started to stand up.

“You need to eat more than that,” Griffin remarked, nodding at her plate.

“I’m just going to go look in on him,” she said with a falsely bright smile t o cover her blatant lie.

Griffin didn’t say anything as he watched her hurry out of the dining room. Of course she was concerned. It was normal. Still, she wasn’t going to do him or herself any good if she got herself sick in the process. With a heavy sigh, Griffin stood up and retrieved her plate and fork and followed her.

“Here,” he said, slipping her food onto the nightstand beside the door.

She glanced up from the basin where she was wringing water out of a washcloth and smiled in a tired sort of way, but it was genuine, and that was enough. “Thanks,” she murmured before she turned her attention to her cousin once more.

Griffin grunted in response then turned to go.

“Griffin?” she called after him though not loudly enough to disturb her cousin.

He looked over his shoulder but didn’t turn around. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice taking on a husky drawl, as though the words were costing her dearly.

He shook his head, unable to meet her gaze as he fingered the doorknob and tamped down the urge to run away. “Just don’t . . . don’t do anything like that again,” he muttered.

“Okay,” she replied. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

He couldn’t think of anything to say to that. The feeling that he was slime was growing way too fast, and he had to get out of there. “It’s . . . fine,” he mumbled, hurrying out of the room as quickly as he could go.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

The sound of sloshing water woke him, and Gunnar uttered a low groan. Every single cell in his body ached, and he felt oddly hot yet cold at the same time. Hissing sharply when a cold, clammy thing touched his forehead, he tried to turn his face away. But the cold was persistent, and he finally forced his eyes open to look at whoever was accosting him. “Izzy . . .” he whispered, his mouth too dry to speak louder. She was looking down at him at an odd angle, and he realized in a dazed sort of way that she had to have been cradling his head in her lap.

She managed a little smile and dabbed at his forehead again. “Think you can drink some water?” she asked.

He nodded, or at least the thought he did, wincing as he pushed himself up onto his elbow, wincing as he pulled his other arm out from under the warmth of the blankets to reach for the glass she held in front of him. “I’m not . . . a pup,” he managed.

“Of course you’re not,” she replied simply though she didn’t let go of the glass. “Are you feeling any better?”

That didn’t dignify a response, as far as Gunnar was concerned, so he concentrated instead on sipping the water as she tilted it to his lips. “What time is it?” he asked, letting his hand drop away from the glass after he drank as much as he thought he dared. Stomach twisting uncomfortably, he was relieved when she set the glass aside again.

She sighed as he dropped back and clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. “It’s almost three in the morning.”

He groaned.

“You had a nightmare,” she remarked in a conversational sort of tone as she idly smoothed his hair off his forehead. “You kept saying that they hurt.”

“They did hurt,” he replied as his body started to regain a semblance of warmth, as he allowed the rhythmic stroke of her hand to lull him.

“What hurt?” she asked.

“M’ ears,” he murmured.

“Your ears?” she echoed, the muscles in her legs constricting as though she were about to move them. “Let me look at them.”

“Not now,” he said, his words almost slurred. “Then . . .”

Her hand stilled for a moment before she resumed the motions once more. “Why did your ears hurt?”

Gunnar turned his head slightly, making himself a little more comfortable. “’Cause,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the soft sweater she wore, “I ripped ‘em . . .”

She was silent for a moment, as though she were pondering what he’d said. He didn’t open his eyes to verify that, though. “You . . . you mean when we were little? Why? I’ve never understood why you did that . . .”

He did open his eyes then, blinking slowly since he seemed to be having trouble focusing on her face. Her features wavered and came together only to waver again, but slowly she came into focus, and he sighed. “You were there,” he said though his tone lacked any real irritation. Unsure as to why he wasn’t surprised, he didn’t have the strength to think about it too much. Maybe a part of him had known it all along, just as a part of him had realized back then that InuYasha had remained there with him all night, too . . .

He hadn’t really thought about that night in years. He had been ashamed of what he’d done for a while, upset with himself that he would allow anyone to hold that much sway over his emotions, but in the end, he’d come to some understanding that he wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been faced with the ugliness of his peers.

She nodded slowly and uttered a soft sigh as she carefully but firmly inserted the digital thermometer into his ear. “You made me cry,” she replied in the same sort of simple tone. “I was so scared, and all I wanted was for someone to help you, even if it couldn’t have been me . . . but I don’t understand,” she admitted quietly. “I never have understood, I guess . . .”

“Re . . . minders . . .” he slurred, letting his eyes close once more. He wasn’t sure exactly why he was answering her questions. Maybe he was just too exhausted to fend them off. Then again, maybe it was because, when it came right down to it, he knew damn well that Isabelle wouldn’t judge him because she never, ever had . . . “Everyone saw . . . and knew . . . that I was weaker . . .”

She snorted—a harsh sound in the quiet room. “Weak? Please, Mamoruzen . . . you’ve never been weak; not ever.”

He shook his head slightly, forcing his eyes open again. “Not now,” he agreed, rubbing a hand over his face and grimacing at the heat radiating off his own skin. “Decided . . . they wouldn’t be . . . a weakness . . . not again . . .”

She was quiet for a moment, carefully considering what he’d said, what he must have thought at the time. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but to see the humor in the situation. The Isabelle he knew tended to speak her mind and damn the consequences. “Is that what you thought? That being a hanyou was a weakness?” she asked gently. “Did you really believe that your hanyou ears were a sign of weakness? What are you? Sampson?”

He tried to snort at her reference to the man mentioned in the _Bible_ whose strength was connected to the length of his hair. The sound was more pathetic than haughty. “Hardly,” he muttered. “’Sides, I won’t let them be . . .”

“Is that what you decided?”

“ _Hai_ ,” he replied, slipping into his native tongue.

She was quiet for a moment, and she sighed. “You know something?”

Struggling against the sluggish sense of sleepiness that didn’t feel at all natural, he forced his eyes open again. “Mm?”

“You’ve never been weak, you know,” she murmured, her voice rasping, cloying. He had to strain to hear her. “Ears or no ears, it’s never been who you are.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “But they’re a constant reminder of what I’m _not_.”

“And your mother?” she asked in a clipped sort of tone, as though she were trying not to be offended and failing. “Do you consider _her_ to be a weakness?”

He stared at her for several moments as he considered her question—the same question that he’d asked himself all those years ago. The answer was as simple now as it had been back then—the same answer—the answer that would never change. “She’s the reason why I refuse to acknowledge that being a hanyou is a weakness,” he finally answered. “She’s my mama.”

Isabelle finally smiled. “Sometimes,” she allowed as she wiped his forehead once more, “you say the sweetest things.”

He groaned and shoved the cloth away. “You’d better never tell that to anyone else,” he warned.

She laughed and settled more comfortably against the headboard. “Don’t worry, Mamoruzen. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Better be,” he muttered, letting his eyes drift closed at last. “I know where you live, you know.”

Her laughter was the last thing that he heard as he gave in to the lure of sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _For a better idea of exactly what they’re discussing, please read the oneshot, **[The Lesson](http://www.mediaminer.org/fanfic/view_ch.php/111115/525638#fic_c).**_
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final_** **_Thought_** _**from**_ **_Isabelle_** :  
>  _His ears were a sign of … weakness …?_


	64. Denial

“Are you really Isabelle’s mate?”

Choking on the swig of dandelion tea that he’d just taken, Griffin wiped his chin with the back of his hand and tried not to give in to a fit of coughing.

Samantha Izayoi shrugged, twisting her hands together in her lap as she sat on the top of the patio steps and scowled out over the expanse of the back yard. “I mean, I know she _says_ you are and everything, so I just wondered . . .”

“M-Ma . . .? We-I-uh . . .” Griffin stammered, unable to contain the furious blush that washed into his cheeks.

“You don’t seem like Isabelle’s type,” she went on, pulling up her knees and dropping her chin onto them with a dejected little sigh.

“Her . . . type?” Griffin managed, digging a handkerchief out of his pocket to dab at the spilled tea dotting his shirt.

The tiny white hanyou ears atop her head flattened momentarily then popped back up, twisting and twitching at every sound she heard. “Yeah . . . You’re really quiet, aren’t you?”

He frowned, unsure what to make of the current conversation, unsure as to why he was feeling more than a little defensive. “I guess,” he agreed slowly.

“You seem nice, though, and Papa told Mama that you had a good head on your shoulders,” she continued.

He grunted. He’d come outside seeking a modicum of peace and quiet that he wasn’t likely to get inside. A couple of Isabelle’s female relations had dropped in to say hello to her parents since they were visiting Isabelle for the day. Samantha, it seemed, hadn’t been very impressed with the conversations being bandied about—everything from fashion to the research to the flight from Japan, it seemed. He couldn’t rightfully blame her, he figured. The topics had bored the hell out of him, too. Still he hadn’t been expecting her to follow him. She hadn’t said anything at first, but as she’d sat on the steps, she’d slowly started to talk.

“Mama said that you saved Grandpa Cain’s life,” she remarked at length, her deep sapphire eyes candid, openly assessing him over her shoulder. “Did you really?”

Despite the underlying knowledge that Griffin’s involvement that night so long ago wasn’t a secret any longer, he couldn’t help the sharp spike of panic that surged through him at the mention of it, and while he knew that Zelig didn’t actually blame him for his mother’s death, it really didn’t help to quell the feeling that he could have—should have—done something more. “I . . . I suppose,” he allowed, figuring that it’d be pretty pathetic of him to argue with the girl on the matter.

She broke into a brilliant smile, and Griffin felt himself blush again. “Then you’re a hero—a real, living hero,” she decided.

“Uh, err, no,” he muttered, shaking his head as he tried to brush off the high praise. “It . . . It wasn’t like that,” he said.

“Papa says that real heroes are the ones who say they aren’t,” she told him.

“Your papa’s a little off-kilter, isn’t he?”

She laughed, her head falling back, her shoulders shaking as the sounds of her amusement spilled over. “Probably,” she agreed as her laughter wound down. “Papa says that everyone is.”

Griffin grunted since that was probably the sanest thing he’d heard in a while. It struck him again, exactly how strange it seemed that this girl could possibly be related to Isabelle. Aside from looking completely different, there was something almost timid about her, and while she seemed friendly enough, she wasn’t nearly as exuberant as Isabelle, either. In fact, as far as he could tell, Isabelle not only looked very much like her mother, but she acted like her, too—so much so that it was a little scary, as far as he was concerned.

No, Samantha was completely different from her sister, wasn’t she, and that, in Griffin’s opinion, wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

“You’re really nice,” she stated with an air of finality. “Really, really nice.”

He blinked and did a double take. Samantha shook her long silver hair over her shoulder and smiled. “Nice?” he echoed incredulously.

She nodded, scrunching up her thin shoulders as the early fall breeze stirred her bangs. “Yes,” she stated once more. “Really nice. I suppose that’s why Isabelle likes you.”

He grunted as his cheeks pinked once more, and he sighed. Why was it that Isabelle’s family seemed to thrive on saying things that made him do that? ‘ _Must be in the genes_ ,’ he thought dourly.

Samantha sighed, too, her youki tinged with a peace that Griffin envied—the peace of the young who had yet to realize that the world could be a tougher place than they’d been brought up to believe. “Can I tell you a something?” she asked at length, her voice dropping to a breath above a whisper. “I haven’t told anyone else yet . . . I’m not so sure that they’ll understand . . .”

“What’s that?” he asked, unsure if he really wanted to hear whatever confession the girl was going to make.

Shifting around to face him, she shrugged almost candidly and bit her bottom lip, her ears flattening for a moment while she considered exactly how to word whatever she was struggling to say. “I . . . I’m going to be a hunter,” she said, studiously averting her gaze.

Griffin shook his head, unsure if his ears were working right or not. “Wh-What’s that?” he asked.

Daring to cast him a hesitant look, she cleared her throat and straightened her spine. “I’m going to be a hunter,” she said again, her tone taking on a more belligerent sound as though she was daring him to disagree.

Settling back a little more in the chair beside the table, Griffin considered that for a long minute. “A hunter?” he repeated at length as he watched a squirrel dart down a stout tree trunk and back up again. “Is that right?”

She nodded, and while he could tell from her posture that she was trying to look as tough as she could, there was an anxiety in her eyes that she couldn’t hide. Maybe in time she’d learn how to cover that up, and if she really wanted to be a hunter, he figured that she’d have to, but at her age, she couldn’t do it. “Y-Yes,” she stated, forcing a measure of bravado into her voice that she didn’t look like she felt.

Frowning at the tiny little thing that was Samantha Izayoi, Griffin just couldn’t see her doing the things that he knew damn well were the trademarks of the hunters. “Why would you want to?” he asked, tamping down the sudden urge to tell her to go home and play with her dolls a little longer before she tried to make a grown-up decision like that.

She seemed surprised by his question. “My family’s always protected humans,” she said slowly. “At least, Grandpa InuYasha has . . . Grandpa Cain, too . . .”

“More than one way to protect somebody,” Griffin mused, carefully keeping his tone as neutral as he could.

Samantha’s brow furrowed as she thought about that. “I know,” she drawled, idly tracing a knothole in the wooden banister that lined the steps. “My uncle’s a hunter—the best one in Japan—maybe the world!”

“So you have something to prove?” he concluded without shifting his gaze from the squirrel.

“No-o-o . . .”

“You like fighting?”

“N-Not exactly . . .”

“But you want to be a hunter.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

Giving up the pretense of nonchalance, Griffin turned to look at the girl. She had a thoroughly contemplative look on her face, as though she were trying to find a way to explain why she felt the way she did, and Griffin waited. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that no one in the extended family was going to be pleased with the idea of Samantha becoming a hunter, and while he wasn’t family, he had to agree.

“I just want to protect people like you did for my grandfather,” she stated simply.

Griffin gritted his teeth since he highly doubted that those things really should have been compared. “I don’t think . . . You know, your family . . .”

“Won’t like it,” she finished when he trailed off, her shoulders drooping slightly. “I know.”

“Then why do you want to?” he contended.

She let out a deep breath and bit her lip again. “Do you suppose everyone’s lucky? Like I am? I mean, I got to thinking . . . what if I could help someone? Someone who isn’t as lucky as I am? Shouldn’t I? Why is it that only boys are expected to want to do something? Boy or girl doesn’t matter. I could beat just about all of the boys in my class.”

The irritated light in her eyes flashed as her temper soared—anger at the injustice of being told to leave the job to someone else, he supposed. That flash of anger—he’d seen the same spark in Isabelle’s gaze before, hadn’t he—drew a soft chuckle from him as he slowly shook his head. “You could probably beat me,” he remarked.

She blinked and stared at him like he’d managed to surprise her, and when he noticed her inspection, she blushed. “Now you’re just humoring me,” she said though she didn’t sound irritated in the least.

He shrugged and pushed himself out of the chair, grimacing at the stiffness that had settled into his joints during the inactivity. “Not really,” he replied. “It’s been a long time since I fought anyone.”

“I thought all youkai fought,” she murmured, standing up and brushing off her bottom.

“Not all,” he corrected. “Some only fight when they have to.”

She stared at him for a long moment then nodded slowly. “That’s what you do?”

For some reason, her avid interest unnerved him, and he grunted, picking up what was left of his tea and shuffling toward the door. “Something like that.”

“I-I’m not afraid!” she exclaimed suddenly.

He stopped as he shoved the door open before stepping inside. The paleness of her skin and her silver hair gave her a strange sort of glow, lent a mysterious sparkle to her very being, but her eyes flashed with indignant fire as she crossed her arms over her chest stubbornly. He could see her determination, her resolve, and while he knew that she was still young enough that she could easily change her mind, he knew deep down that she wouldn’t. “Killing isn’t a pretty thing,” he rumbled at last. “Even if you think that the person deserves it, the only person who suffers for it is you.”

She didn’t say anything more as he disappeared into the house, which was just as well. Maybe on some level he could appreciate her desire to protect those who were weaker than she was because he could understand it. That didn’t mean that he agreed with it. Trouble was that the cub was entirely too set on it, and for reasons that Griffin didn’t want to consider too deeply, it horrified him, too.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“Isabelle Izayoi, I’m so angry at you that I could turn you over my knee,” Bellaniece remarked as she crossed her arms over her chest and leveled a no-nonsense look at her daughter.

Isabelle set the coffee mug she’d gotten out of the cupboard down and sighed. “I know.”

Bellaniece didn’t look pacified, but she heaved a sigh of her own and shook her head, letting her arms fall to her sides in a thoroughly defeated way. “I suppose you’ve already gotten an earful from your father?”

“And everyone else,” she said in a completely frank tone. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone, I swear,” she went on quietly. “I just . . .”

“You just wanted to make sure that it was safe,” her mother finished for her.

“It doesn’t matter,” Isabelle replied sadly. “I still messed up.”

Bellaniece’s frown darkened, and she stared at Isabelle for several minutes. “Just promise me that you’ll consider things a bit more than you did this time?” she asked as she stepped forward to smooth her daughter’s hair out of her face.

“I will,” she promised with a shaky little smile. “I’m sorry, Mama . . .”

Bellaniece finally smiled, her dark blue eyes brightening by degrees as she slowly shook her head. “You know, I think I worry more about you than I do Lexi . . .”

Isabelle made a face and pulled away. It wasn’t the first time that her mother had said such things, and it never failed to irk her, just the same. “Of course not,” she muttered, dumping two spoonfuls of sugar into the coffee mug. “I suppose she’s always been more level headed than I am, hasn’t she?”

“No,” Bellaniece said firmly, grasping Isabelle’s shoulders and turning her around. “I worry because you think like I do . . . and I’ll be the first to admit that I didn’t always make the best choices.”

“You chose Papa,” she pointed out mulishly.

Bellaniece laughed softly. “I did, but you know . . . I tried so hard to protect . . . everyone else . . . for so long that I . . . I made mistakes,” she concluded with a shake of her head. “You understand, don’t you? If I’d just told Daddy what I knew . . .” she trailed off, a sadness stealing into her expression that was a rare thing for her mother. “Everything worked out in the end, but if I’d been honest from the start—if I hadn’t been trying to keep secrets from Daddy . . . maybe he and Gin wouldn’t have had to take the long way around, you know?”

Isabelle nodded, understanding what her mother was trying to impart her. Maybe if she’d told Cain in the beginning, he might have been forced to deal with the idea that Gin had needed him more than she’d ever let on. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference at all . . . or maybe it would have made things that much worse . . .

Still, the underlying truth of what Bellaniece had said made sense. Even then, her father had said more often than not that Isabelle was truly her mother’s daughter, but changing a lifetime of thoughts and beliefs was a pretty tall order, wasn’t it?

“Now enough of that,” Bellaniece said suddenly, her smile resurfacing as she adjusted the sleeves of her pretty violet dress. “Tell me about your Dr. Marin. A very good looking man, daughter-of-mine.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Isabelle quipped as she smiled, too.

“Oh, absolutely,” Bellaniece agreed, “almost as good looking as your father.”

“Oi, wench,” Kichiro grouched as he stepped into the kitchen. “I heard that.”

Bellaniece laughed and slipped her arms around her mate, sparing a moment to breathe deep before she kissed his cheek. “I missed you, lover,” she breathed.

Isabelle rolled her eyes and sipped her coffee. “Didn’t you get all of that out of your systems last night?” she teased.

Kichiro chuckled, wrapping his arms around Bellaniece’s waist. “Of course not, Baby-Belle, and while I can allow that your bear is nice looking, your mother shouldn’t be eyeing another man, don’t you think?”

“Isabelle, did you get the paper?” the man in question asked as he lumbered into the kitchen.

All three sets of eyes shifted to stare at him, and he glanced from one to another as though he expected them to attack him. “Wh . . . What?” he finally asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Isabelle hurried to say before her mother could say something completely embarrassing to the poor man. “I left the paper on your desk.”

He grunted in response and gave them each a suspect look before he turned on his heel and stomped out of the room again, muttering under his breath about weird families and demented women.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“How are you feeling?” Isabelle asked as she breezed into the guest room with a tray of toast and weak tea for Gunnar.

He groaned upon spying the food and made a face of absolute disdain. “Kami . . . Take it away,” he muttered, tugging the blankets over his head as he rolled over.

Isabelle set the tray aside and sank down in a nearby chair. “Your blood work’s off the charts,” she said mildly as she tugged the blankets away. “It’s safe to say that your dosage was too high.”

He grunted something entirely unintelligible and pushed her prying hands away.

“Think of the bright side, though . . . until you’re better, you’ll get to have my full, undivided attention,” she quipped, inflicting enough of a teasing note into her words to draw him out from under the blankets to scowl at her. She’d figured that’d work . . .

“That’s really not a consolation, don’t you agree?” he muttered irritably.

She smiled. Griping at her was definitely a good sign, in her estimation . . . “Now, now . . . It could be worse.”

“I fail to see how,” he intoned.

“Well, Mama and Grandma are in the living room catching up if you’d like to see them,” she offered sweetly.

Gunnar snorted and rolled over onto his side, facing away from Isabelle. “No, thank you,” he growled.

“Okay, okay,” she relented since any more teasing would likely have Gunnar out of the bed, and considering he was still running a fever though it had lessened somewhat, that would have been bad. “Let me check your temperature,” she said as she stood up and stepped over to the nightstand to grab the thermometer and a clean cap.

“I think you did this on purpose,” he accused acerbically as she tugged on his earlobe and positioned the thermometer.

“As if!” she scoffed, relieved that his temperature was below 102 degrees Fahrenheit for the first time since he’d been purified. “You think I want someone prettier than me in this house? That stubborn old bear has yet to admit that he’s my mate, after all.”

That comment earned her the most scathing glower that Gunnar could manage—not particularly impressive with the more subdued coloring he possessed at the moment. “I fail to see the humor in the situation, Izzy,” he remarked.

She sighed, her smile dimming but not disappearing. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly as she sank down on the edge of the bed and smoothed the coverlet. “I’ll change your sheets in a bit, and you need to try to eat some of that toast and drink the tea. You’ll dehydrate if you don’t.”

“Keh!” he scoffed arrogantly though he paled about three shades, too. “No food.”

“How’s the patient?”

Isabelle glanced past Gunnar as her father strode into the room. “His temperature is 101.6,” she told him.

Kichiro nodded. “Good.”

“Where’s my cell phone?” Gunnar asked suddenly.

Isabelle shook her head, and Kichiro narrowed his gaze on him. “You’re not working while you’re here,” she stated flatly in a tone that should’ve circumvented argument on his part. It didn’t.

“The world doesn’t stop moving simply because I am not feeling well,” he pointed out.

Kichiro rubbed his temples. “She’s right,” he agreed. “Let Bas handle things.”

“Bas can’t handle things,” Gunnar replied. “He’s in Chicago.”

“Chicago?”

“Mm,” he intoned. “Checking out a few things . . . disappearances . . .”

Isabelle shot her father a questioning look. Kichiro intercepted it and shrugged to indicate that he wasn’t quite sure what Gunnar was talking about. “Disappearances?”

Gunnar shrugged, taking the mug of tea and scowling at his reflection in the liquid. “There’ve been a few . . . Chicago . . . Milwaukee . . . St. Louis . . . Thought that they were just lesser youkai offing one another, but. . .”

“Lesser youkai tend to fight all the time,” Kichiro mused with a shake of his head. “Is there something strange about this?”

“Just worried that there’s been more disappearances in the last couple years than there were before, I suppose,” Gunnar replied.

Isabelle digested that for a moment, realizing too late that it made sense. She hadn’t really stopped to wonder why Bas hadn’t come around to have his turn telling her how stupid she’d been. With an inward sigh, she bit her lip, figuring that Bas would probably make sure to rectify that as soon as he came home.

“Anyway, I need to check in with Myrna,” Gunnar concluded with a sigh.

Isabelle rolled her eyes but grabbed his phone off the bureau. “You’ll take a nap after you call her?”

“I’m not—” Breaking off when a yawn surfaced, Gunnar looked more irritated than Isabelle could remember, and she pressed her lips together to keep from laughing at the absolutely disgruntled expression on his face. “Damn it.”

“Why don’t you call her later?” Kichiro suggested as he glanced at his watch. “Speaking of calling, I owe Toga an update.”

Grimacing at that, Gunnar pushed himself up and shoved the blankets aside.

“Hold on,” Isabelle said, gently but firmly pushing on his shoulders. “You need to lie down until the fever breaks.”

He shook his head and shrugged her hands off. “No,” he argued. “I’m fine.”

“Keh! Don’t be stupid. Lie down and rest,” Kichiro commanded. “Unless you really are that anxious to let everyone see you in that form . . .”

Gunnar frowned at Kichiro but grudgingly leaned back. “Don’t worry him,” he finally muttered.

Kichiro nodded and strode out of the room while Isabelle cocked her head to the side and bit her lip. “He didn’t want you to do this, did he?”

“Did you really think that he did?” Gunnar shot back as he draped his forearm over his eyes.

“Hey, Isabelle, do you have—?” Stopping abruptly as she rounded the corner, Samantha stopped short, her eyes widening as she slowly shook her head, eyeing Gunnar in complete confusion. “Who’s that?” she asked in a stage whisper.

Isabelle nearly laughed at the confusion on her baby sister’s face. “You mean you don’t recognize your own cousin? Mamoruzen, say hello to Samantha.”

Gunnar grunted, lifting his arm just enough to peer out from beneath it. “Samantha,” he greeted tightly as he let his arm drop once more.

The girl blinked and stared with an air of complete awe on her face, and Isabelle almost laughed again. “Did you need something, Sami?”

Samantha shook her head and blushed a little as she dragged her attention away from Gunnar. “I was just looking for the cat food,” she admitted. “She’s hungry . . .”

“She’s always hungry,” Isabelle replied with a smile. “It’s under the sink in a white plastic tub.”

“O-Okay,” Samantha said slowly, her gaze flitting to Gunnar’s prone form once more. She stared at him for another minute, her cheeks pinking just a little more before she suddenly jumped back and swung around, darting out of the room as quickly as she could.

Isabelle did laugh then, giggling quietly as she shook her head and dug a clean set of sheets out of the closet. From the sound of Gunnar’s even breathing, she could tell that he was asleep, and that was just as well. Considering her sister’s reaction, she had a feeling that he’d be irritated beyond belief since it was quite obvious to her that Samantha had thought that he was damn fine looking. Besides, Samantha didn’t have the same sort of memories of Gunnar that Isabelle did. By the time she’d been born, Gunnar hadn’t come around as often. It was something that Isabelle had always thought unfair. Samantha hadn’t grown up in a group as she and Lexi had. She hadn’t had the luxury of hanging out with cousins, of being irritated at their stupid antics and loving them just the same. She’d grown up alone within the family confines, and maybe that was why Samantha tended to be a bit shyer than her older sisters. Of course, that didn’t mean that Isabelle wasn’t well and truly amused by Samantha’s obvious appreciation of Gunnar’s looks . . .

‘ _Well, he_ is _good looking_ ,’ she had to allow. All of her male relatives were extraordinary looking men, but she knew from experience that Gunnar tended to draw one of two reactions from the women he met. Some women found him intimidating—his quiet arrogance, his unwillingness to bend to anyone else’s expectations—but usually women were inexorably attracted to him in ways that normally made her roll her eyes. She’d seen it often enough over the years. Having grown up with him, she’d seen how the girls in school had made fools of themselves as they vied for his attention. The stigma of the hanyou that he’d hated so much when they were young had somehow managed to add to his almost aloof nature.

In fact, she could only remember one time when Gunnar had actually gotten in trouble for less than upstanding behavior, and while she’d teased and cajoled him over the incident, she never had truly gotten a straight answer out of him about his level of involvement, after all.

Of course, she’d figured that Morio, being the miscreant that he was, had been the ringleader and mastermind behind it. Besides, Mikio tended to be a bit too shy to really have instigated it, though in hindsight, he hadn’t tried very hard to dissuade Morio, either, had he? Gunnar said that he’d come across them after they’d already gotten started, and while Isabelle didn’t think he was lying, she also wouldn’t put it past him to stretch the truth, either . . .

Morio and Gunnar were fourteen at the time. Mikio was sixteen. Isabelle remembered only because it was the year she’d had her first real boyfriend, but from later accounts garnered from both Morio and Mikio—though mostly from Morio, who was rather proud of his part in it all—it just figured that she’d missed out on their particular kind of mayhem . . .

But they’d somehow come to the conclusion that it’d be a prime idea to bore a hole through the wall that separated the boys’ changing room from the girls’ side. It was during lunch hour, and since the three guys normally spent the time together, it wasn’t surprising that Gunnar had located the other two, but what did surprise Isabelle was that Gunnar had actually gone along with it since behavior such as that would probably have been considered beneath him, or so she’d thought.

Apparently, they were taking turns peeping through the hole at the girls’ swim team when her grandfather caught them. Mikio had forgotten his lunch and InuYasha caught them as he was delivering it. On the one hand, they were probably lucky, all things considered. InuYasha’s form of punishment was a month of after school drills that left all three of them exhausted though Mikio, because of his balance problems, had spent the grueling days doing stationery exercises like push-ups and sit-ups while the other two were put through their paces by both Toga—she heard that he’d barely spoken during the entire month of training but stood stoically by with his arms crossed over his chest and looking far more like his father, Sesshoumaru than he ever had before or since—Ryomaru, who was more amused than irritated at his son’s behavior, and InuYasha, who most certainly was not.

Still, it amused her, especially since it wasn’t something that was typical of Gunnar to have done. She supposed now, looking back, that those particular guys only degenerated when they were together, and the more of them there were, the worse the degeneration was. She’d seen it first hand, hadn’t she? The few summers she’d spent around all four of them had been full of pranks and silliness that the individuals wouldn’t have pulled had it not been for the constant goading to one-up each other, and since she’d been the preferred target of most of those pranks, she couldn’t help but laugh at it all now.

Letting out a deep breath as she set the new sheets on the nightstand and headed for the door, she spared one last glance at Gunnar and shook her head. To be completely honest, she hated to see him that way, hated knowing deep down that it really was her fault that he was suffering. While she could appreciate that he really was an excellent candidate for the testing, she still didn’t like it.

She could only hope that the rest of the testing went better than this trial had . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final_** **_Thought_** **_from_** **_Griffin_** :  
>  _Her family’s just as weird as she is_ …


	65. Courage

Griffin pushed a low hanging branch aside and waited for Samantha to pass before carefully letting go of it and resuming his gait along the packed dirt path that he’d worn through the forest. The intent had been to go for a simple walk away from the alternate universe his nice, tranquil house had somehow morphed into. In the course of a week since Isabelle’s mother and youngest sister had arrived, his blissful quiet had been shattered with lots of female laughter, dinners with her immediate family that Griffin had somehow been talked into allowing, hushed whispers that stopped the second he walked into a room and started up again when he left it, and worse, her cousin . . .

He sighed and moved a little faster. Mamoruzen was still in residence though he’d reverted back to his hanyou form a couple of days ago. Still weak and obviously not well, he didn’t like the arrangement but hadn’t managed to extricate himself from Isabelle’s clutches yet, anyway, and as much as Griffin hated to admit it, Mamoruzen’s presence was far more unsettling to him than Isabelle’s mother, father, and sister, combined. His only real solace, as he saw it, was that as much as he hated the situation, Mamoruzen hated it _more_.

Of course, that didn’t explain why he’d let the cub tag along on his walk. No, that was something completely impromptu, but given what he’d inadvertently witnessed, he figured that she was safer with him than she was with her so-called loving sister, the daughter of darkness, Isabelle.

He’d ventured into the kitchen to tell Isabelle that he was going to go for a walk, only to stop short when he saw her manhandling her little sister as she tried to lift Samantha’s shirt. The younger girl was squirming in an effort to gain her freedom, and Griffin had stared in abject horror as Isabelle had announced very loudly that Samantha needed to stop struggling and let her look at her—and he was quoting— _boobies_.

 _Apparently, though, Samantha hadn’t wanted Isabelle to look at any such things, but the little girl wasn’t big enough to fight off Isabelle, and before Griffin knew what he was doing, he’d strode across the floor, pulled Samantha away from Isabelle’s clutches, and shoved the girl behind his back_.

“ _What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled, glowering at Isabelle in complete and utter exasperation_.

 _She laughed and tried to push Griffin aside. “Mama said that Sami’s got pretty little boobies, and I wanted to see!” she insisted_.

 _Samantha groaned and huddled against Griffin’s back. Griffin snorted loudly and pushed Isabelle back a step. “Leave her alone, Jezebel,” he countered. “She’s a good girl, and you’re trying to pervert her_.”

 _Isabelle was undaunted. “But Mama said that she had really lovely nipples—a really gorgeous shade of mauve—and_ —”

 _Snorting again—louder this time—to cut her off mid-sentence, he shook his head almost violently, his cheeks painfully hot, as he narrowed his eyes on Isabelle. “If you want to see . . . You have your own. Go look at them,” he snapped. “We’re going for a walk, and you’re staying here_.”

 _He turned on his heel then, grabbing Samantha’s arm, and he pulled the girl out of the kitchen behind him, not stopping until they were out of the yard and on the forest trail_.

 _Only then had he trusted himself not to die of complete embarrassment, all things considered, and he’d spared the girl a quick glance only to find her smiling up at him in a completely besotted sort of way. “Wh-what?” he stammered, cheeks pinking again though he wasn’t entirely sure why_.

 _She laughed a little self-consciously and hoppity-skipped beside him. “I_ knew _you were a hero,” she replied happily_.

“ _Hero?” he echoed with a shake of his head_.

 _She nodded, lacing her fingers together and turning them outward as she wandered along. “Yep! I mean, she and Mama . . . well, they’re kind of alike, and . . . and Isabelle’s always been like that,” she admitted, her smile diminishing just a little. Shrugging off the thought, she grinned at him again. “Thank you for rescuing me_.”

 _He grunted in reply and kept moving, hoping that she’d end the lauding of his virtues there, and luckily she had_.

They’d been walking for quite a while now in silence, which was fine with Griffin. It was something he could appreciate about the girl—Samantha. She seemed content enough to watch the happenings around her, whether they were in the house or out here walking, her eyes, her ears, never seemed to stop moving.

“Oh . . . a deer . . .” she breathed, stopping in her tracks as she stared into the dense woods.

He stopped, too, and narrowed his eyes, finally spotting the animal that Samantha had no trouble locating. Wandering sedately through the tangle of trees, the doe didn’t seem to care that she was being observed, and Griffin almost smiled. “They’re thicker in the less populated areas,” he commented quietly, more to himself than to the girl. “When I was young, they were all over . . . Everywhere you went, it seemed like they were there . . .”

She let out a soft sigh, her eyes darting around only to light on the deer time and again. Nothing got past her, that was certain, and she laughed quietly when the doe, spooked by the loud squawk of a bird, lifted her head then darted away into the cover of the forest.

He set out again, absently relishing the slight breeze that lifted his bangs off his forehead. Samantha gazed into the woods for a moment longer before hurrying to catch up with him. “Where did you grow up?” she asked suddenly though he had a feeling that she’d been pondering her question since they’d stopped to watch the deer.

“Uh, Japan,” he muttered, hoping that she would let it drop.

“Really?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“Where in Japan?”

He cleared his throat and shrugged. “Up north,” he mumbled. “Hokkaido . . . probably close to where Sapporo is now.”

“Hokkaido? You were from the north,” she replied with an impish grin as her ears flicked to catch the sounds of the forest. “Was your name always Griffin?”

He wasn’t sure why her question caught him off guard. Faltering in his step, he recovered quickly enough, but not before Samantha noticed. “Uh, no,” he admitted as her smile faded slightly. “E-Everyone changes their name sometime, don’t they?”

“Mama said that Grandpa Cain’s name was Zelig when he was small,” she said. “Was yours Marin, then?”

“N-No,” he admitted with a frown. “My name . . . my name was . . . Kioshi . . . But that was a long time ago.”

“Kioshi,” she echoed thoughtfully then smiled. “I like that name!”

“I haven’t . . . told anyone that in . . . centuries,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “I don’t know why I even said it . . .”

“So you told me?” she asked in an awed sort of tone, her deep blue eyes rounding in wonder as she darted ahead and turned around, walking backward as she stared at him.

“It’s not . . .” he trailed off with an inward grimace. “It’s just . . . haven’t really had many people to talk to. Didn’t really . . . Didn’t really want to.”

She clapped her hands and whirled around, waiting only to fall into step beside him. “You should do it more often. I . . . I like talking to you.”

“That’s only because the rest of your family is warped,” Griffin intoned with a sigh, leaning on the cane he’d grabbed before stalking out of the house. Gritting his teeth together, he ignored the bitter twinge that was keeping time with his gait.

“Do you have to use that?” Samantha asked gently. He spared a glance at her and scowled when he noticed that she was frowning at the cane.

“Sometimes,” he admitted, his tone gruff but not unkind.

Shifting his gaze to the path ahead, he could feel her eyes on his face, but he tried to ignore it as he made himself move forward.

“It’s not fair,” she blurted at length as she crossed her arms over her chest and heaved a tumultuous sigh.

Griffin glanced at her again, blinking at the petulant little pout on her face. “What’s not fair?” he asked, veering off to the left and heading for the thick tree trunk where he normally rested for a few minutes before heading back.

She followed him and sat down, hunching forward and wrapping her arms around her knees. “Isabelle and Lexi,” she muttered, wrinkling her nose at the perceived injustice.

“What about them?” he questioned since he wasn’t entirely sure what she was talking about.

Samantha heaved a sigh, slowly shaking her head as her hanyou ears flattened for a moment only to perk up again though they didn’t stand up straight by any means. “I wish I were older, too!”

He was a little surprised by her emotional outburst, and he still had no idea what she was upset about, anyway. Nodding slowly in agreement since he _could_ allow that life wasn’t fair, Griffin heaved a sigh and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hands hang between. “Older than them, you mean?”

She scrunched up her shoulders then let them fall. “No . . . Yes . . . Maybe.”

“Well, that’s a decisive answer,” Griffin muttered, more to himself than to the girl. Not for the first time, he had to wonder exactly what planet women were from since none of them had ever made a damn bit of sense to him . . . “How old are you?”

“Fourteen,” she mumbled. Griffin had to strain to hear her. “I’ll be fifteen in a few weeks, though!”

“And being that old is . . . bad?”

Samantha twisted a lock of hair around and around her finger before sticking the wispy end in her mouth. “Kind of . . . I used to think that Lexi was so lucky,” she admitted in a tiny voice. “I mean, John’s perfect, right? He really is, you know?”

Griffin nodded even though he had never met this ‘John’ guy, but Samantha seemed convinced that he was perfect, and that wasn’t really the point, was it? “So your sister’s mate is perfect,” he concluded with a frown, “and that’s not fair?”

Samantha sighed and let her hair drop from her fingertips. “Well, yeah . . . Papa and Mama really like him, and he’s crazy about Lexi . . . and Isabelle . . . She has you, right? She says that you’re her mate, so you must be, right?”

The abrupt change in the conversation brought a flush to Griffin’s cheeks. “W-W-We, uh . . . M-Me?” he stammered then shook his head with a decided snort. “That’s just to keep her away from the general populace,” he muttered. “She’s a menace.”

Samantha laughed just a little then sighed again. “But you love her, right? I mean . . . It’s kind of obvious . . .”

“I-I-It . . . it is?” he couldn’t help asking despite the acute discomfort that he couldn’t quite repress.

Nodding slowly, Samantha looked even more depressed. Even her hanyou ears dropped—something that disturbed Griffin more than he could say. Absently thinking that he was rather glad that Isabelle didn’t have those in her arsenal, he cleared his throat then coughed. “Uh-huh . . .” Samantha murmured, biting her lip in a thoughtful kind of way. “You kind of get this expression when you’re looking at her, I guess . . . I mean, you can just tell . . .”

“I-I-I do?” he choked, wondering what else people were drawing conclusions about based on what they thought they saw on his face. “What kind of expression?” he asked dubiously.

She shrugged. “I don’t know . . . kind of like the same as the one that InuYasha-jii-chan gets on his face when he looks at obaa-chan. . . He never talks a lot, you know? But you know he loves obaa-chan just because he _looks_ at her like that . . .”

Clearing his throat nervously, Griffin snorted and wondered if it would look odd were he to whip out a mirror the next time Isabelle was in the vicinity. Somehow, the idea of being that obvious bugged the hell out of him . . .

‘ _Of course it’s obvious_ ,’ his youkai spoke up. ‘ _Did you really think it wasn’t?_ ’

He sighed and pushed himself to his feet once more. That couldn’t be right, could it? He’d never actually admitted anything to himself, had he? How could he possibly be that easy to read?

“Are you going to marry her?” Samantha asked as she hurried after him.

Griffin shot her a quick glance and grunted something completely unintelligible as an explosion of heat erupted under his skin once more. Dancing along beside him—he couldn’t rightfully call her gait a walk or even a skip—he noticed in a distracted sort of way that she really was nothing but arms and legs, and stick skinny ones, at that.

“I mean, you will, won’t you? I still think it’s a little unfair. I don’t think there’re going to be any decent guys when I get old enough to find my mate . . .”

“Well . . . you’re . . . a little . . . young, aren’t you?” Griffin forced himself to say. To be honest, he wasn’t sure why he kept answering her questions. Then again, he got the feeling that she didn’t say as much to her parents. They seemed like an open-minded sort, maybe a little _too_ open-minded. After all, if her mama had told Isabelle about Samantha’s—chest—then he supposed he couldn’t fault her for not wanting to say more to her, anyway.

“That’s what Papa said,” she admitted as she slowed her gait and kicked at rock. With a sigh and a shake of her head, she looked completely disgruntled when she said, “Then he asks me if there are any boys in my class that I like.”

She sounded so discomfited that Griffin had to smile just a little. “Are there?” he couldn’t resist asking.

She wrinkled her tiny nose and snorted indelicately. “No . . . and even if there was, boys my age are all stupid and silly. They’re either drooling over some anime girl—hello? She’s not real!—or trying to peek into the girls’ dressing room or stuff like that . . . A couple of them got into a fight over a stupid bento omake the other day . . . Grandpa twisted their ears really hard when he caught them.”

Griffin blinked. He’d never done any of that when he was young, had he? Of course, times were much different then. Still . . .

He supposed that he’d simply never really given it much thought, had he? He hadn’t had a reason to. Times had changed from the world he’d known so very long ago, and maybe living through all those changes had made them seem a little less severe. He’d known, of course, that girls weren’t nearly as demure as they had been, but even that hadn’t been so strange. Shorter skirts and much more daring behavior—Isabelle was a prime example of the latter—had never been something that he’d noticed, mostly because he hadn’t had it foist upon him.

Then again . . .

Shuffling uncomfortably as the memory of Melissa Thompson and the kiss he hadn’t wanted assailed him, Griffin ground his teeth together and tightened his grip on the cane as a wave of hopelessness washed over him. He’d been trying to figure out exactly how to explain it to Isabelle since the afternoon that it had happened, and he was no closer to having an answer for it than he had been. The one time he’d come close to telling her, her family had showed up for dinner, and he hadn’t been able to do it, and even if he had, she’d been so preoccupied with her cousin’s health that he wasn’t entirely sure that she would have listened to him, anyway.

‘ _Nice excuses, Griffin_ ,’ his youkai muttered. ‘ _That’s all those are, you know_.’

Griffin snorted and kept moving. ‘ _Not really_ ,’ he retorted. ‘ _Knowing her, she’d have just said that it was fine without really hearing me_.’

‘ _And that’s not okay, is it?_ ’

‘ _Of course it’s not!_ ’

‘ _Why? Because you want her to blame you and what? Yell at you and curse you? But you know she’s not like that, right?_ ’

‘ _She . . . She should be_ . . .’

‘ _Maybe_ ,’ his youkai agreed with a sigh. ‘ _But she’s not, and that’s what you really can’t stand. You hate the idea that she may not be angry at you at all_.’

“Griffin?”

Blinking away the lingering traces of reverie, Griffin glanced at Samantha only to find the girl staring at him in a worried sort of way. “What?”

She shrugged a little too carelessly but didn’t falter in her step. “You were growling,” she replied.

“I . . . I was?”

Nodding matter-of-factly, she shrugged again. “You were,” she allowed with a little giggle. “It was cute.”

“Cu—?” Cutting himself off abruptly as more color filtered into his cheeks, Griffin clamped his mouth closed and kept moving. Maybe Samantha was more like her sister than he’d wanted to believe . . . or Isabelle really was a disease that could spread like the Plague . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Leaning back in his chair in the darkened corner of the opulent restaurant, Alastair shifted his gaze around, taking in everything about the place in an instant as he waited.

He despised the place, damn it all. Filled with the reek of humans, it was, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth as he carefully blanked his expression to keep his utter contempt from showing. ‘ _Murphy better have good news for me_ ,’ he thought with an inward sigh—a sound that he was loathe to make. Demanding that they meet here, of all places . . . ‘ _Yes, it had better be good_ . . .’

“Sorry to keep you waiting, my lord,” Murphy said in lieu of greeting as he hurried over and sank into the chair across from Alastair. “Traffic was terribly thick . . .”

“Dispense with the pleasantries,” Alastair commanded. “Traffic, indeed.”

Murphy nodded quickly, muttering to the waitress who had wordlessly stopped beside the table, and he waited until she’d moved on before addressing Alastair again. “I have a name.”

Alastair nearly smiled. To be truthful, he’d been more than a little irritated that he hadn’t had one in the beginning. “Tell me.”

Murphy nodded again and paused long enough to accept his drink from the waitress before turning his attention back to the youkai lord once more. “Marin. Griffin Marin.”

“Griffin Marin,” Alastair repeated, pondering for a moment whether or not the name meant anything to him. It didn’t. “And you’re sure?”

Nodding as he set the glass of amber liquor aside, Murphy cleared his throat. “Aye, absolutely. I referenced all the people who were registered for the conference, and it seems that Dr. Marin teaches ancient linguistics at the University of Maine—specializes in ancient Indian dialects, he does. He’s got tenure, and they tried to make him head of the linguistics department, though he turned them down flat. They say that there isn’t another man anywhere who knows as much as he does.”

“Maine?” Alastair repeated, his eyes flaring wide. “And you’re sure that he isn’t working for the Zelig?”

“I’m sure. Seems he really is trying to avoid undue attention,” Murphy went on, turning his glass on the table in an absent sort of way. “Where better to hide than right under the tai-youkai’s nose?”

Alastair wasn’t nearly as amused by Murphy’s assessment as Murphy was. “What else do you know about him?” he asked pointedly.

Chuckling at his own wit, Murphy shook his head and shrugged. “That’s about all there is,” he admitted. “The university doesn’t have any home address on file—at least, not on public file, that is—and he doesn’t have any other common records, either.”

“The University of Maine,” Alastair murmured, his gaze shifting from Murphy to stare over his head as Alastair pondered the information he’d been able to glean.

Murphy shifted slightly in his seat and licked his lips, looking distinctly uncomfortable for a moment as he cleared his throat to regain Alastair’s attention. “Will you . . . do you require anything else of me, my lord?” he asked in a carefully constructed tone.

“No,” he decided at length, rising to his feet. Pausing long enough to pull a neatly folded wad of money from his pocket, Alastair peeled off a fifty pound note and dropped it onto the table.   “That should cover the cost of your drink,” he remarked baldly before sweeping through the restaurant toward the door.

Ignoring the prattling of the human maitre de, he exited the establishment and wrinkled his nose at the stale air of the city—smells that had accumulated in the thousands of years since its inception. Built layer upon layer, the stench was soaked into the very earth, or so it seemed.

‘ _Soon enough, though . . . soon enough_ . . .’ Alastair would have the means to do what should have been done long, long ago . . . and Griffin Marin . . . He was going to help whether he wanted to or not . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Pulling off her glasses and rubbing her eye with the inside of her wrist, Isabelle stifled a sigh and pushed the notebook off her lap. Glancing at the clock on the mantle, she let out a deep breath and reached for her cell phone. It was nearly eleven o’clock, and though she was reasonably sure that Gunnar was all right, she’d feel much better if she checked on him. Knowing him, he’d gone straight to the office despite his promise that he wouldn’t do any such thing.

She hadn’t wanted him to go home, at all. He was still a bit weak even if he would never admit as much, and while he wasn’t really in any actual danger, she would have felt better if she’d been able to talk him into staying at least a day or two longer.

He answered on the third ring, and she wasn’t surprised to hear the trace weariness in his voice, either. “Hello, Izzy. I’m just fine, and no, I’m not at the office.”

Wrinkling her nose, she snorted. “I hate caller ID,” she muttered, leaning forward, propping her elbow on her knee and rubbing her forehead. “You should be resting, and you’d damn well better not be at the office.”

“I’ve been resting for the last week,” he countered mildly. She could hear the chime of Gunnar’s clock in the background—a clock that stood on the mantle in Gunnar’s living room. Handcrafted for him as a gift from one of the ancient youkai tribes of northern Japan before his birth, the clock was imbued with a strange sort of youkai power. To her knowledge, it had never needed to be wound, and as beautiful as the intricately carved piece was, the reason that she was so happy to hear it was far simpler to explain. The dulcet sound that tolled the hour at least satisfied Isabelle’s worry that her baka cousin would push himself too hard once he left her care.

“All the same,” she argued, “don’t you dare overdo it. Do you understand?”

“You’re worrying about nothing,” he commented. “I’ll stop by tomorrow for the blood work, just like I promised.”

“Okay,” she replied hesitantly. “But if you start to feel bad for any reason, you’d better call me.”

“I know; I know.”

Pushing herself to her feet, she paced the length of the room and back. “Promise that you’re not going to hole yourself up in your study all night looking at case files.”

“Well, not all night,” he drawled. “Goodnight, Izzy.”

She heaved a sigh. “Night.”

Clicking off the device, she crossed her arms over her chest as she wandered into the dining room. A soft glow shone under the basement door—the only sign of light in the duskiness. Pausing on the closed side of it, she bit her lip and frowned. If she knocked, would Griffin let her in? Somehow, she didn’t think he would.

The distance that she’d felt since she’d foolishly tested the serum on herself felt wider than ever. It was her fault, she knew, and while everything had been pushed aside while she conducted the first real test on Gunnar, she understood deep down that she really did owe the man an apology.

Still, it took a few moments for her to garner her resolve enough to raise her fist to rap on the door.

She waited for a couple minutes then let out a deep breath as she turned away. She would have been more surprised had he actually opened the door, she supposed. Shaking her head as she shuffled into the living room, she shut off the lights and checked the front door to make sure that it was locked, figuring that she might as well go to bed since it was obvious to her that Griffin still wasn’t interested in hearing her apology.

That presented a whole other issue, though. Whether he was upset with her or because Gunnar had been staying with them, Griffin also hadn’t stepped foot into their bedroom since she’d tested the serum on herself, either, and that was enough to make her want to cry.

‘ _Can you blame him?_ ’ her youkai blood spoke up. ‘ _Sami stayed here almost every night, even after your mother decided that she and your father would stay at your grandfather’s house. Even if she hadn’t been here, you should know Griffin well enough to realize that he wouldn’t be comfortable sharing a bed with you when anyone else was here, even if Mamoruzen wasn’t well enough to have noticed at the time_.’

But she’d hoped, hadn’t she? ‘ _Mamoruzen went home, and everyone’s out at the mansion tonight_ . . .’

‘ _Which doesn’t mean that Griffin’s not still feeling entirely unsettled. Think about it, Bitty. He’s not used to having so many people around all the time, is he? Do you honestly think that he’d be comfortable right away just because they’ve all left for now?_ ’

She supposed that her youkai had a point, even if she hated to admit as much. ‘ _It’s cute, though, isn’t it? Sami really took to him . . . and he didn’t seem to mind having her underfoot, now did he?_ ’

No, he didn’t, and that had both surprised as well as amused her. Of course, everyone loved Sami. It was impossible not to, after all. There was just something about the girl, wasn’t there? Isabelle had noticed that, herself, over the years. Still, that Griffin would take to her as quickly as he had was a wonderful thing, as far as Isabelle was concerned, and yet it made her feel a little sad, too. Not for the first time, she had to wonder if having Samantha around had made him think about his own sister—the sister he’d lost so long ago.

It didn’t take long to change into the oversized shirt she’d swiped from Griffin’s side of the closet and brush her teeth, and she’d just slipped into bed when Griffin poked his head into the room, his dark eyes as intense as ever, and that slight scowl that she adored firmly in place. “Don’t suppose you’re coming to bed?” she asked in what she hoped was a light, if not casual, tone.

He blinked and grunted though his cheeks pinked slightly, and for a moment, she thought that he was going to say that he wasn’t.

“I was going to let you in,” he muttered as he stripped off the long sleeved shirt he wore over his t-shirt then sank into the chair beside the bureau to pull off his socks, too. “Charlie started whining.”

“Oh, did he?” she commented absently, curling up on her side and trying not to look too obvious as she watched him. The muscles in his arms rippled and bulged with his movements, and she bit her lip, trying not to be too obvious of her blatant assessment in case he looked at her. Those arms were thick and strong, and even the angry red puckered lines of jagged scars that traversed his flesh could not detract from the overall effect. Smiling wanly, she realized in a vague sort of way that she was clenching a fistful of the coverlet in her hand as her eyes linger on him. Sometime after he’d gotten home from the university, he’d changed into a pair of sweatpants. Scratching the back of his neck, he retrieved the discarded clothing and quietly left the room to put them in the hamper and brush his teeth.

Her smile widened slightly as the gurgle of the old pipes rumbled through the quiet house. Running the water for exactly fifteen seconds before shutting the tap off for two minutes, the rumble resumed again, lasted for a full minute more, then stopped for the final time. A creature of habit, he was. She appreciated that about him more than she could credit, and when he padded back into the bedroom once more, she couldn’t help the little laugh that escaped her.

“Your, uh, cousin’s all right, then?” he questioned as he sat on the side of the bed.

“He says he is,” she said. “I wish he would have stayed her at least another night or two.”

“Your father said that he thought it was all right to let him go home, didn’t he?”

Leaning up on her elbow as he stretched out beside her, Isabelle shrugged. “It’s not that,” she argued a little defensively. “Mamoruzen tends to push himself. He won’t slow down just because I’ve asked him to.”

Griffin snorted. “You’re worried about nothing.”

Tucking a long lock of hair behind her ear, Isabelle shrugged and scooted closer to Griffin’s side. “Maybe,” she allowed quietly. “Griffin?”

“You’re not really going to talk all night, are you, Isabelle?” he asked pointedly.

“No, but . . .”

He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “’But’, what?”

“I just wanted to tell you,” she began slowly, “I . . . I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to . . .” trailing off as a sudden and brutal wash of tears stung her eyes, Isabelle forced them back and swallowed hard, “. . . to hurt you.”

He shifted slightly and cleared his throat, his body tense under her touch. “Forget it,” he finally muttered. “Just don’t . . . Don’t do anything like that again.”

She squirmed closer and kissed his cheek. “I was thoughtless,” she went on. “I should have considered how you’d feel, and I’m sorry . . .”

He sighed again and scowled at the ceiling. “Stop apologizing, Isabelle. You don’t . . . You don’t need to.”

“But—”

“I mean it,” he interrupted.

“. . . Okay,” she relented. Closing her eyes as she settled her cheek against his shoulder, she smiled just a little as he reluctantly slipped his arm around her. The fatigue of the past week was quickly catching up with her. She’d spent hours on end beside Gunnar, making sure that he was as comfortable as he could be, and with the tempered excitement of her family’s impromptu visit, it wasn’t any wonder that she was so tired, was it? It was the first time in days that she felt completely at ease, lulled by the steady beat of Griffin’s heart.

“I-I-Isabelle?”

“Hmm?”

Griffin licked his lips and frowned. Her unexpected apology was eating at him, grating on his nerves. Maybe she was wrong to have done what she did, but . . .

But it paled in comparison to what he’d done, didn’t it? Even if she had made a bad choice, she’d done it for the right reasons—reasons that he could understand, even if he didn’t think it had been the best idea at the time. No, she’d done it simply because she couldn’t countenance the thought of trying the serum on someone else, and the hell of it was that he could appreciate her dilemma.

And then she’d apologized because she thought that she had hurt him.

He had to tell her. There was no other way. If she couldn’t forgive him, then it was no more than he deserved, wasn’t it?

Forcing himself to open his mouth, he closed his eyes for a moment.   Yes, he had to tell her. He owed her that, didn’t he?

He glanced at her only to look back again, then he sighed. Fast asleep, she was, not that he could blame her. She’d worked herself silly the past week, fretting over her cousin. To be completely honest, he was surprised that her exhaustion hadn’t caught up with her sooner.

With a grimace, he clumsily turned enough to wrap his other arm around her, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind that accused him of being a coward.

And still he allowed himself to hold her, to relish the feel of her. He wasn’t entirely certain when he’d first realized that she belonged in his life, and he wasn’t sure what he’d ever do if she left him, either. The gentle scent of her lent him a calm that he hadn’t realized existed in this world, and he couldn’t quite help himself as a bittersweet pang shot through him followed by a fear so thick, so encompassing, that he tightened his arms around her, fighting against the irrational fear that she would somehow slip right through his fingers.

“My . . . my . . . _mate_ . . .” he whispered as a single tear slipped down his cheek only to disappear in the tangle of her hair. Squeezing his eyes closed as the words gave way to an insular surge of anxiety that he couldn’t contain, Griffin winced as a dull, throbbing pain erupted deep in his chest. He knew, didn’t he? He’d known even if he hadn’t wanted to admit it. It didn’t matter, did it? The truth . . . he knew the truth—exactly what she’d told him from the start.

Tightening his arms around her, he willed away the panic, the fear, concentrating on the steady pulse of her youki as it soothed him, reassured him, and this time—only this time—maybe he could be thankful that she was asleep, after all . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Bento_** _: Japanese lunch box that can be purchased at the store or packed at home_.  
>  ** _Omake_** _: a ‘bonus’, normally a figurine or some such that is given away as a promotional item with certain purchases. In this case, Samantha is referencing one that came with a purchased bento_.
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final_** **_Thought_** **_from_** **_Samantha_** :  
>  _I want a teddy bear, too!_


	66. The Second Trial

“He’s not going to throw up _on_ anything, is he?” Griffin asked baldly without looking up from the newspaper.

“Keh,” Gunnar snorted though the sound was missing much of the hanyou’s customary arrogance.

“No, but if he did, I suppose that’d give me a good reason to talk you into buying a new sofa,” Isabelle remarked with a wan smile.

Griffin grunted something entirely unintelligible, and she rolled her eyes. There really wasn’t anything wrong with the sofa, after all. She was just picking on Griffin, and he knew it.

Gunnar moaned softly, knocking Isabelle’s hand along with the washcloth that she’d been using to dab his fevered forehead away.

The dosage was still too high.

At least his fever wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been following the first test. It was bad enough, though, in her estimation, and the end result was the same as it had been the first time around: Gunnar had been purified.

She intercepted the completely disgruntled look on Griffin’s face as he cautiously peered around the corner of his paper. He was staring at Gunnar with a thoroughly perplexed sort of visage, as though he were struggling to reconcile the visage of the hanyou he’d come to know with the human lying on the sofa. She laughed softly, unable to help herself. The expression on Griffin’s face was just too amusing to ignore.

“That’s just . . . scary,” he muttered with a shake of his head.

“What? That he looks so different now?” Isabelle couldn’t resist asking.

Griffin snorted. “That he looks like a _woman_.”

“I can hear you, you damned old bastard,” Gunnar grumbled without opening his eyes.

Griffin snorted again, though whether it was because of what Gunnar had said or because he was still awake, Isabelle didn’t know. “Will you help me? I need to get him into the guest room.”

He didn’t look like he wanted to do any such thing. Making a show of rolling his eyes, Griffin hefted himself out of his chair and stomped forward, apparently willing to help even if he wasn’t pleased with the idea of it. If it were any consolation, Gunnar didn’t look very happy about the arrangement, either, cracking his eyes open wide enough to glower at the bear-youkai. Griffin ignored the expression and helped Isabelle pull Gunnar to his feet, and, each one catching Gunnar’s arms around their necks, they helped him out of the living room and down the hallway.

“I could have carried him,” Griffin couldn’t help saying, stating it just loud enough that he was sure that the hanyou-turned-human didn’t miss it.

Gunnar snorted indelicately and muttered something under his breath.

Isabelle rolled her eyes as Griffin kicked the guest room door open and helped Gunnar into the room. “He doesn’t weigh much more than a woman,” he went on, drawing a certain level of somewhat perverse pleasure out of goading the incapacitated hanyou.

“He does, too,” Isabelle replied with a shake of her head. “You shouldn’t kick him while he’s down, anyway.”

“Go to hell, will you?” Gunnar slurred. “Just . . . right to hell . . .”

“You’re kind of becoming a permanent fixture around here, so I’d say it’s close enough,” Griffin retorted.

“Enough, you two,” Isabelle interrupted as they helped Gunnar over to the bed. “You need to rest, Mamoruzen. I’ll be in later to check up on you.”

Groaning as he dragged the blankets up under his chin, Gunnar mumbled something that sounded like, “All right,” but she couldn’t be certain.

Making quick work of drawing the curtains, she followed Griffin out of the room and sighed. “I thought I had it calculated right this time,” she complained in a petulant little voice.

“Oh, I doubt it’ll hurt him,” Griffin replied as he headed back toward the living room again. “Do him some good to be knocked on his ass every now and then.”

She shook her head but fell in step behind him, rubbing her forearms since the evening was a little cooler than normal. She hadn’t thought to close the windows earlier. The late September weather was sometimes a bit unpredictable . . . “You’re not being very nice, you know,” she pointed out mildly.

Griffin shrugged. “That’s because he’s a pain. He’ll always _be_ a pain, too, I imagine.”

Smiling despite herself, Isabelle rubbed her forehead and laughed. “You’re terrible, Griffin Marin,” she chided, her words undermined by the humor in her tone. Her laughter died, however, when she noticed the way he was rather gingerly rotating his shoulder. “Let me see,” she said softly, touching his shoulder gently.

He jerked away, startled, and glanced back at her. “It’s fine,” he muttered, his cheeks reddening slightly.

“Humor me?” she pressed with a little smile to reassure him.

Heaving a long-suffering sigh designed to let her know that he thought she was worrying over nothing, he grudgingly unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off, letting the garment dangle from his forearms as he waited for her to get it over with. “I’m telling you, it’s fine.”

“Mmm,” she intoned, rubbing the area with the tips of her fingers. He sucked in a sharp breath but didn’t try to stop her. “Why don’t you take off your t-shirt so I can rub some ointment into your shoulder?” she suggested.

“Don’t need it,” he replied, shrugging the shirt back into place.

“Let me take care of you for a change,” she prodded.

He shot her a quick glance as he buttoned the shirt again, his brows drawn together as though he were trying to figure out something, but his cheeks reddened just a little more, and he shook his head adamantly as he stalked over to his desk and sank into the chair. “It’s fine,” he stated once more. “Don’t worry about it.”

She wrinkled her nose, ready to argue with him if she had to, but had to let it go for the moment when the telephone rang. Sparing a moment to pin him with a long look, she turned abruptly and grabbed the handset. “Hello?”

“Good evening, Isabelle, isn’t it?”

She blinked since she didn’t recognize the woman’s slightly lyrical voice. “Hello . . .? Do I . . . know you?”

The woman laughed. “I’m sorry . . . I suppose we’ve never properly been introduced. I’m Maria Masta, Attean’s wife.”

“Oh? It’s nice to hear from you! I suppose you’ve called to talk to Griffin?”

At the mention of his name, the bear-youkai’s head snapped up just before he narrowed his gaze and pushed himself to his feet.

“Well, not exactly,” Maria allowed with a chuckle. “He is being good to you, yes?”

“Yes,” she assured him as Griffin stepped forward and held out his hand for the receiver.

“Excellent.”

She laughed and winked at Griffin, backing up a step to keep him at bay. “I guess he wants to talk to you,” she said as Griffin made a grab for the phone. “It was nice talking to you.”

“The pleasure was mine,” Maria remarked.

Rolling his eyes and snorting loudly, Griffin snatched the phone and turned his back on Isabelle. “Hello?”

“Ah, Osezno . . . How are you?”

“Not so bad,” he replied, acutely aware of Isabelle’s avid interest. Holding his hand up to keep her at bay, he hurried toward the basement door since he was relatively certain that she wouldn’t follow him down there. “Did you need something?”

Maria laughed. “Do I have to have a reason to call you, hmm?”

Grimacing since he really hadn’t meant to sound so abrupt, Griffin grunted as he reached for the doorknob. “Uh, no, but . . .”

“Good!” she interrupted. “So how are things with you?”

“They’re, um, fine,” he muttered, sparing a moment to pin Isabelle with a look before he closed the door and lumbered down the steps.

“Fine, is it? You don’t sound like everything’s fine.”

Letting out a deep breath, Griffin plopped onto the sofa and winced when his shoulder protested the movement. “No, it is. It’s . . . everything’s . . . good.”

“Well, to be honest, I called to talk to your little Isabelle,” Maria admitted at length.

Griffin snorted automatically. “She’s not m—there isn’t a damn thing ‘ _little_ ’ about her.”

Maria laughed. “Are you trying to tell me that your Isabelle is a . . . generously proportioned woman?”

Rolling his eyes at Maria’s delicate way of stating things, Griffin rubbed a hand over his face and uttered a terse grunt. “She’s not allowed to talk on the telephone,” he muttered.

“Oh? Why is that?”

“She’s a menace,” he explained.

Clucking her tongue, Maria half-laughed, half-sighed. “Does she know that you have such a high opinion of her?”

“‘Course she does.”

“Well, Attean and I have been discussing the idea of taking a vacation.”

Narrowing his eyes, Griffin leaned forward to grab the elk he’d been working on for the last few days. He had a feeling that he’d rather not hear more about this proposed vacation . . . “A vacation, huh?”

“Yes . . . it’s been a while since we’ve been to see you, has it not?”

It was on the tip of Griffin’s tongue to remind her that they’d never actually come down to see him, but he thought better of it, wondering vaguely if he couldn’t talk Attean out of it before it became a reality. “Don’t you have too many obligations to get away for a vacation?”

She laughed. “Everyone needs one every now and then,” she pointed out. “Besides, you haven’t seen fit to come up this way in much too long, so someone has to make the effort, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he remarked, thinking about the hanyou that he just couldn’t quite seem to be rid of. He wasn’t entirely sure how long the testing was going to take, but if Gunnar ended up purified and sick after every dosage, it was safe to assume that it may well take quite a while. Making a face at that thought, Griffin stifled the urge to sigh. True, Gunnar hadn’t been overly hostile during his forced stays, but Griffin was pretty positive that the surly cub simply hadn’t felt up to it.

“You want to have alone time with your Isabelle,” she surmised.

“W-N-No!” he blurted hotly, wincing as the delicate leg of the wooden elk snapping as his grip tightened.

The infernal woman laughed again. “I see, I see,” she went on as though she hadn’t heard his outburst. “Understandable, that is . . .”

“That’s not—”

“Oh, Attean’s home. I must go, but tell your Isabelle that I cannot wait to meet her. Be good, Osezno.”

“She’s not ‘ _my’_ —” Cutting himself off with a harsh growl, Griffin lowered the receiver and glowered at it as the empty dial tone issued from it. Attean and Maria coming for a visit? The sigh that he’d been trying to hold in came out as he stood up to discard the ruined figurine in the bin beside the fireplace.

‘ _That’ll be bad, won’t it?_ ’ his youkai remarked in a foreboding tone of voice.

‘ _Probably_.’

‘ _Maybe you should call and talk to Attean_ . . .’

Rubbing a hand over his face in a weary sort of way, Griffin slowly shook his head. ‘ _If I did that, they’d be even more convinced to come_ ,’ he thought with a cynical snort, wondering not for the first time, exactly why he’d ever stayed around the couple as long as he had. Besides, it had been a long time since he’d seen them—longer than he cared to think about, and as much as he hated to admit it, the Mastas were as close to family as Griffin had.

‘ _Don’t worry about it, Griffin. You can’t change their minds if they want to come down, so worry about the things you can control instead_.’

Heaving a sigh, Griffin shook his head. That was the problem, wasn’t it? There wasn’t much he did have control over; not really. He supposed that it was normal, come to think of it. He’d yet to meet a man who really did have a good handle on anything once they succumbed to the pretty flutter of eyelashes. It just figured, didn’t it? He was never, ever going to be in control of anything in his life again, was he?

‘ _Damned if you do, and damned if you don’t_ ,’ he thought acerbically, reaching into the shallow box he kept beneath the coffee table with odd blocks of wood. ‘ _Might as well brace myself for the lace curtains . . . it’s only a matter of time_ . . .’

A small smile broke over his features, though, as another thought occurred to him, and swallowing hard to choke down the suspect thickness that made his eyes sting, he cleared his throat. He supposed that he simply hadn’t taken the time to consider the ramifications of the truth that he’d only recently come to acknowledge. If Isabelle really _was_ his mate, then that meant she knew it too—not surprising since she loved to say it over and over again to him—but the deeper truth to it. To spend the rest of his life with a creature like her—someone who wore her beauty so loosely; completely unaffected by the way the world outside perceived her? Someone who was utterly free with her laughter and her affection and who didn’t mind that Griffin never could be quite the same way . . .? But that was all right, wasn’t it, because Isabelle didn’t care as long as . . . as long as he allowed her to be near him.

It was enough to scare the hell out of him, and yet . . .

And yet it was enough to thrill him, too . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“I hate you.”

Sebastian Zelig leaned back and laughed, the chair he was occupying giving a low groan under the man’s healthy weight that went hand in hand with his hulking stature. “Of course you do, but you know, I have to admit, Marin had a damn good point. You’re scary as hell when you’re human . . . and you do rather look like a woman . . .”

“He’s completely . . . obnoxious . . .” Gunnar muttered as Isabelle checked his pulse, “ _almost_ as obnoxious as you, Bas-tard.”

Rolling her eyes, she refrained from comment until she’d finished her task. “Is he?” she replied, not bothering to ask about whom Gunnar was speaking.

Gunnar grunted, shifting onto his side and burying his face in the down of the pillow.

“Well, then, I’d think that the two of you would get along great since you have a habit of being pretty obnoxious, yourself,” Isabelle went on smoothly.

He muttered something that Isabelle was probably better off not hearing before adding, “He thinks this entire thing is _hilarious_.”

“We-e-ell . . .” Bas drawled with a lopsided grin on his face.

“Shuddup,” Gunnar retorted.

“Of course he doesn’t,” Isabelle assured him, frowning at the thermometer readout before chucking the ear cover into the trash can. “He simply thinks that you’re _pretty_ , that’s all, which you are. Even Mama said so.”

“Keh!” he snorted, cheeks reddening slightly. “Thanks a lot, Izzy.”

She laughed quietly and handed him a glass of water. “Drink,” she commanded with the authority of a dictator.

He sighed and pushed himself up—a sure sign that, even though he wasn’t feeling well he was feeling, at least marginally better than he had after the first injection. “If I drink this, will you leave me alone for a while?” he grouched.

She nodded. “Yes.”

Rolling her eyes again when he hurriedly gulped down the liquid and shoved the glass at her, Isabelle slowly shook her head. “Your vitals are better this time,” she allowed slowly. “I really thought I’d adjusted the dosage enough. I’m sorry.”

Waving off her apology with a grunt as he flopped back down and drew the blankets up under his chin, Gunnar closed his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he intoned groggily.

“Oh, don’t be sorry, Bitty,” Bas said thoughtfully. “It does the moron some good to be knocked down a peg or two . . .”

“Go to hell, Bas . . . straight to hell,” Gunnar muttered.

Bas laughed. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes on her cousin-slash-uncle and slowly shook her head. “Why do I get the feeling that you two are going to start fighting the second I walk out of this room?”

“Would I do that?” Bas asked mildly.

“Oh, I know you would . . . or don’t you remember the time that you and Mamoruzen got into a fist fight on his human night when you were, what? Thirteen?”

Bas didn’t even flinch. Nope, he grinned. “That’s because he was asking for it.”

Isabelle couldn’t help but smile though she did shake her head to let him know what she thought of that. “Grandpa was furious with the both of you.”

Bas chuckled. “Got the lecture about fighting with humans,” he remembered. Gunnar snorted again since he had been the human that Cain was lecturing about.

“Don’t make me call Grandpa,” she warned, pinning them both with stern looks before she finally slipped out of the room.

“You ever tell her what I said that pissed you off?” Gunnar asked at length after the door closed behind their cousin.

Bas snorted. “Not a chance in hell,” he remarked since Gunnar had been picking on Bas—or at least on parts of Bas’—anatomy at the time, and that had always been a bit of a sore spot with him, anyway.

“ _You know, Bas, there’s a good chance you’ll kill some poor girl with that thing_ ,” Gunnar had said at last—the final straw that had snapped Bas’ temper at the time.

Remembering those particular words, though, made him smile. “Sydnie doesn’t complain about it,” he muttered, his cheeks pinking despite his resolve not to blush.

Gunnar groaned and pulled the pillow around his head. “Spare me the details, Bas,” he grouched. “You find out anything?”

Bas shook his head since he understood Gunnar’s abrupt change in topics. Since he’d just gotten back from his mission of trying to figure out what was happening with the sporadic youkai disappearances, he figured that was what Gunnar was asking. “Nope . . . Couldn’t find a thing, and either no one knows anything or they’re not willing to talk.”

“Mm,” Gunnar intoned, letting go of the pillow and pushing himself up into a sitting position though he did rest heavily against the headboard. “Nothing.”

Bas rubbed his forehead and nodded slowly. “Not a damn thing.”

Gunnar frowned. Eyes red-rimmed and skin a sickly yellowish shade, he looked like he was exhausted, but Bas knew well enough that Gunnar would be furious if he didn’t tell him everything he’d learned before he left. “Maybe it’s coincidence,” Gunnar said at length though he didn’t look like he really believed any such thing, and neither did Bas. Call it a gut instinct, but something about the situation just didn’t feel . . . right.

“Yeah,” he agreed in a doubtful tone. “Maybe . . .”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“I don’t remember telling you that you could come down here,” Griffin pointed out with a raised eyebrow as Isabelle stepped off the bottom stair and held out a steaming mug of fragrant herbal tea.

She smiled at him and shuffled over to the sofa. “But I brought you tea,” she pointed out in an entirely reasonable tone of voice.

“I’m perfectly capable of making my own,” he remarked but took the mug and stared at it for a moment before lifting it to his lips.

Isabelle laughed and sank down beside him. “I won’t stay long if you don’t want me to,” she offered. “I just . . . I just wanted to be near you for a while.”

Choking on the sip he’d just taken, Griffin scowled at her as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand and set the mug aside.

“Was it too strong?” she asked, frowning at the mug.

Griffin coughed, wondering what the odds were that she wouldn’t look at him until his cheeks had cooled down. “It’s fine,” he muttered. “Don’t you have to check on that obnoxious cousin of yours?”

She giggled. “Funny you should use that word,” she mused.

He blinked and shook his head since he wasn’t entirely sure what she was talking about. “What? Obnoxious?”

She nodded and leaned up to kiss his cheek, which brought on a whole new round of ‘red-bear’. “He said the same thing about you a while ago.”

Griffin snorted and grabbed the mug of tea to hide behind. “Don’t . . . do that,” he grumbled.

She laughed louder. “Why not?”

“I . . . don’t want your . . . germs.”

“My germs?” she echoed, her eyebrows disappearing under her bangs.

“Yes, your germs.”

Her laughter wound down though she looked entirely too amused for Griffin’s comfort. “So what did Maria want?” she asked conversationally.

Griffin took his time drinking his tea before he answered. “Nothing,” he lied.

“Oh? She sounds friendly.”

“She’s not,” Griffin assured her quickly. “Attean keeps her in a cage.”

Isabelle’s lips twitched. “. . . Really.”

He nodded. “The world’s safer that way.”

“. . . Are you going to put me in a cage?”

“Thinking about it.”

Her nostrils quivered. “Will you come by to visit me?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know . . . conjugal visits?”

Narrowing his gaze as she dissolved in a fit of laughter once more, Griffin shook his head and decided that that was definitely not deserving of an answer.

“So how long have you known them?” she asked, wiping her eyes with a crooked finger as her laughter finally wound down again.

Pondering whether or not she could possibly turn his answer against him, he shrugged. “A while,” he replied vaguely.

“Did you live with them?”

Carefully dragging the tip of his claw along the block of wood, he shrugged again. “For a time.”

“How’d you meet them?”

Heaving a sigh, he shot her a look designed to let her know that he really didn’t want to talk about Attean and Maria, but he stopped. Staring at him with such a mellow look in her eyes, she seemed genuinely curious. “I, uh . . . I was looking for a . . . a good place to . . . die.”

He could feel her youki draw in around her at his admission. “You wanted to . . . die?” she asked softly.

“Well, uh . . . not so much wanted to, but . . . I was . . . I _thought_ I was . . .”

He could sense her unvoiced questions and sighed again, giving up on the pretense of carving the block of wood as he tossed it carelessly onto the coffee table and leaned back. “Your great-grandfather . . . he cut me down after, uh . . . after what happened to your great—After what happened to his wife. I was dying. I knew it. I just . . . I didn’t want to . . . I mean, there was so much . . . death . . . there . . . I didn’t want to . . .”

“You didn’t want to die there,” she concluded softly.

He nodded. “I just figured . . . I wanted to find someplace peaceful . . . someplace . . . quiet . . .” Shaking his head, he tapped his fingertips together between his splayed knees and let out a deep breath. “Someplace . . . where I didn’t hear screaming . . . when I closed my eyes . . .”

“Griffin,” she breathed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could sense her pain—pain she felt because he felt it, too.

Shaking himself suddenly, he blinked away the residual memories and grunted softly. “Anyway, Maria found me, and she and Attean . . . they took me in.”

“How long did you live with them?”

That question gave him pause, mostly because he wasn’t quite sure how long he had stayed with them—at least, near them. “I don’t know,” he began slowly, a thoughtful look surfacing on his features. “Fifty? Sixty years? Maybe more . . . I didn’t stay with them the whole time . . . I lived near them, though.”

“So they’re kind of like your family,” she concluded with a little smile.

He grimaced. “N-Not really.”

“It’s okay to have family, Griffin—even family that you don’t choose.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head quickly. “No, it’s not that,” he blurted, unsure why he was trying so hard to make her understand. “It’s just . . .”

“Just what?” she prompted when he trailed off.

Drawing a deep breath, he leaned forward, scowling at the floor as though his answers were woven into the worn old rug. “Maria . . . she . . . she taught me things.”

“Oh? Like what?”

He scratched his temple and licked his lips, struggling to find a way to put into words what he was trying to say. “Well, I guess she didn’t teach me so much as she . . . reminded me.”

Leaning forward, she placed a gentle hand rest on his shoulder and gave it a little squeeze to reassure him, he supposed. Slowly, timidly, he reached up, covering her fingers with his. “What did she remind you?”

Griffin swallowed hard, blinking as a strange wash of moisture threatened his vision as he tried to stare into the flames on the hearth before him. “She, uh . . . she reminded me . . . that not all humans were . . . bad . . .”

For a moment, he thought that the tears that he smelled were his own, but Isabelle sniffled quietly, and he was shocked to see two fat tears slip down her cheeks as she smiled sweetly at him. “She sounds like a remarkable woman,” Isabelle said quietly.

Griffin cleared his throat and opened his mouth to refute that in his customary fashion then suddenly shook his head. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. “Y-Yeah . . .”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from_** **_Bas_** :  
>  _Well, he_ **_does_** _kind of look like a woman …_


	67. Confrontations

“And you’re sure that you’re going to be okay?” Isabelle asked for the hundredth time in the half hour since she’d gotten the phone call.

Gunnar rolled his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Yes, Izzy, I’m sure.”

She wasn’t placated. Tapping her cell phone against her empty palm, she slowly shook her head as she narrowed her gaze on him as though she were trying to decide whether or not he was lying to her. “It’ll just be for a few hours . . .” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Grinding his teeth together for a minute while he tried to control his exasperation, he stifled the urge to sigh and told himself that she was just worried and that he really couldn’t fault her for that. “If you’d prefer, I can go home,” he pointed out in a more clipped tone than he’d intended.

She wrinkled her nose and started to toss her purse onto the nightstand. “Oh, no! I _knew_ it! You’re going to try to leave the very second I walk out the door, aren’t you? Mamoruzen, you need to stay here another day or two—at least until your fever’s gone!”

“I feel fine,” he lied since he really wasn’t feeling all that great. True, he’d reverted back to his normal hanyou-self late last night, but the fever still hadn’t broken, and to be completely honest, he knew that he could easily go right back to sleep—if Isabelle ever shut her yap so that he could have some peace and quiet, that was.

“You swear to me that you’ll stay here— _in bed_ —until I get back?”

Letting out a deep breath as he rubbed his forehead and smothered an irritated growl, Gunnar nodded. “For kami’s sake, _yes_ , Izzy!” he snapped. “Now get the hell out of here, will you?”

She shot him a calculated look that nearly made him growl as she strode purposefully over to him and held out her closed hand. “You take these, and I’ll go.”

“What are they?” he countered.

She rolled her eyes. “Just acetaminophen,” she assured him as she opened her hand to show him the two liquigels she held. “Take those and swallow them or I’m not leaving,” she warned stubbornly, nodding at the glass of water sitting on the nightstand.

“Not on your life,” he stated flatly. “Those things knock me out.”

“Yes, I know,” she replied evenly, “and since you’re just going to sleep while I’m gone, then that wouldn’t be a bad thing, would it?”

He snorted to let her know exactly what he thought of that idea.

She sighed and set her cell phone down on the nightstand only to take up the glass, extending both medicine and water to him with a pointed look. “Don’t make me call Aunt Sierra.”

He winced since he knew damn well that she would do it, and since _she_ knew damn well that he wouldn’t ever gainsay his mother. “Then you’ll leave?” he grouched, snatching the pills out of her hand with all the ill-grace he could muster.

She had the unmitigated gall to smile sweetly at him as he took the glass of water and slugged it down, too.

“There, I took them. _Now_ will you get the hell out of here?” he grumbled.

She wasn’t impressed by his tirade and only lifted an eyebrow in response. “All the same, you will call me if you need me, right?”

He flopped over, facing away from her, and waved a hand over his shoulder to shut her up.

She heaved a sigh but didn’t say anything else, and, much to his relief, he heard her pull the door closed and shuffle down the hallway.

It was stupid, wasn’t it? What did she think? That he was an imbecile? Never mind that he couldn’t even stand up without feeling like he was going to throw up, so he certainly wasn’t very big on the idea of trying to drive anywhere, even if he did have a mind to do so.

He sighed. Sure, he could understand and appreciate her concern. After all, she still worried over the testing and that she’d somehow manage to maim him for life, but when he’d heard her telling her boss that she couldn’t cover for one of her co-workers, who was already in the middle of delivering a baby. But one of his other patients had also gone into labor, and it was progressing too fast to wait for the doctor to finish delivering the first one, so Isabelle had gotten the call even though she, herself, was on a leave of absence while she finished her research.

To be honest, he almost wished that he hadn’t changed back yet. The nausea that had been plaguing him for the last couple of days as a human was only magnified in his current state, and the dull throbbing in his head had taken a vicious turn, hammering so hard that he seriously thought he was going to pass out from that, alone.

He’d also taken to reminding himself that he really had volunteered to test the serum, and while Isabelle had mentioned that the results were promising so far, he also had to wonder if the purifying factor had anything to do with it. She seemed to believe that the result could be reached without purifying his body to do it—a hypothesis that he sincerely hoped she was correct on. After all, if he had to spend this much time being sick and queasy and human, to boot, then he wasn’t entirely sure that the disease was worth the cure, so to speak.

In any case, he had to admit that he was rather glad that she’d opted to leave him alone for a while. Having his rest interrupted periodically while she took his pulse or checked his temperature was annoying, at best.

Letting out a deep breath as he savored the quiet that had fallen in Isabelle’s wake, Gunnar let his eyes drift closed. He might well be stubborn, but he wasn’t stupid, and he knew damn well that what he needed now was rest . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Rubbing his forehead as he closed the office door and strode over to his desk, Griffin glanced at the clock with a marked scowl. Nearly one in the afternoon, it read, and he’d planned on staying long enough to look over some of the papers that his Ancient Languages class had handed in since he was probably going to get more peace here than he would at home since Isabelle’s cousin was still camping out in the guest room.

Frowning at the slip of pink paper lying in the center of his desk, he picked it up and read it over. It was a missed call note that someone had delivered while he was lecturing, he supposed. Isabelle had called a couple hours ago to let him know that she’d been called in to deliver a baby and wanted to know if he would check on Gunnar when he got home.

Making a face since that was probably the last thing that either he or the hanyou in question really wanted, he crumpled the note in his hand and dropped it into the trash can before gathering the thesis papers with an irritated sigh.

‘ _That whole ‘lack of control’ thing is starting now, isn’t it?_ ’ he thought sourly as he pushed a small stack of the papers into his briefcase since he only had one thing on his mind: that he needed to get home and check on that obnoxious cousin of hers.

The crisp knock on the door precluded Griffin’s train of thought, and with a sigh, he glanced over his shoulder long enough to reply, “Come in,” before resuming his task once more.

“Dr. Marin?”

Both the voice as well as the youki of the intruder drew his attention, and slowly, Griffin turned to eye the unknown panther-youkai. Dressed impeccably in what looked to be a very expensive suit with his black hair caught back in a low-hanging ponytail that trailed over his shoulder, he offered Griffin a rather tight little smile that struck Griffin as entirely perfunctory before he closed the door behind himself. “Yes?” Griffin asked slowly, his gaze more curious than questioning as he turned his full attention on his impromptu visitor.

“Dr. _Griffin_ Marin?” the youkai reiterated.

“As far as I know, there’s only one Dr. Marin at this university,” Griffin remarked.

The man’s smile widened. “Good, good . . . My name’s Duncan McCaffrey, and I was told that maybe you could help me.”

Frowning since the name meant nothing to him, Griffin shook his head. “With what?”

He chuckled though the expression didn’t reach his veiled eyes. It sounded more like a warning than a show of humor, and Griffin straightened his back. “I have a project, you see,” he said in what Griffin figured was as conversational a tone as the youkai was able to use. He had a vague hint of an accent, but he couldn’t place it, either. “It’s just a small thing, really—not of very great import, to be honest,” the youkai went on with a flick of his wrist, as though the entire situation were trivial, at best. “You see, my . . . relative . . . left me a . . . Well, I suppose you might call it a gift, but I’m having trouble translating it.”

“Uh . . . a translation project?” Griffin asked, surprised by the offer. “Can’t you find someone else to do it?”

Duncan chuckled as he strode across the floor with a sheepish shrug. “Ah, well, you misunderstand me. My relative was a bit . . . eccentric, I daresay? He had a propensity to write everything in a now-archaic form of Native American, and from what I’ve gathered, you are the best there is.”

Frowning at the strange turn of conversation, Griffin crossed his arms over his chest and watched as the man continued to pace around the room. “I’m sorry, but—”

“Before you turn me down, hear me out . . . please. I will be more than happy to compensate you for your trouble, and, well, I’m afraid that I really won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

What was it about the man that made Griffin feel completely ill at ease? He’d had offers at other times to translate things, and while he summarily turned them all down—all but one—he’d never felt quite so uneasy about any of those offers before, either. Clearing his throat, he made himself turn to finish stuffing the papers into his briefcase and reached for the cane that leaned against the desk.   “Sorry,” he said again with a shake of his head. “I’m a little busy right now, so I don’t think I can help you.”

“Wait,” Duncan blurted before Griffin could leave the office. He moved faster than Griffin could credit, and with another of those fake smiles, he flipped a small card between his index and middle fingers before slipping it into Griffin’s breast pocket. “Here . . . let me leave you my card. Take some time to reconsider. My relative . . . he meant the world to me.” Ebony gaze flicking coolly over Griffin’s frame, the smile widened though his eyes took on an even more calculating light. “I’ll be back, Dr. Marin, but should you reconsider before then, please do ring me.”

Watching the strange youkai leave with a marked scowl, Griffin didn’t move until he’d let himself out of the office, until the click of his shoes on the old slate floor had diminished. Digging the card out of his pocket, he frowned as he read it. ‘ _Lord Duncan McCaffrey_ . . .’

‘ _Lord?_ ’ Griffin thought with a shake of his head. That would account for the slight accent, wouldn’t it? Still, why had that guy given him such an uneasy feeling? He started to crumple the card in his hand then changed his mind, stuffing it back into his pocket as he headed for the door, too.

Sure, he’d had some bizarre requests before. One lady had come into his office just after he’d started teaching to ask him if he would talk to her cat because, as she said, her cat was channeling the spirit of a dead Aztec warrior. But in all the years that he’d been teaching, he hadn’t once accepted anyone’s offer to have him translate something for him—no one, that was, until Isabelle had showed up on his doorstep with that sheepish smile and the air of defeat. Even back then, that had bothered him though he hadn’t really understood why at the time. No, she’d simply been one of the girls in one of his classes that he hadn’t given a second thought once the lesson had been dismissed.

‘ _Okay_ ,’ he admitted with an inward snort as he pushed out of the linguistics building. ‘ _That was a lie_ . . .’

Of course he’d noticed her from the very first day she’d sashayed into his lecture room. Come to think of it, every single guy in the room had noticed her, for what it was worth. With a smile on her face that hadn’t faltered when she’d caught sight of the scars traversing his cheek, she’d stared with rapt attention every single time she’d walked through the door.

And she was bright—damned if she wasn’t. As much as he liked to grumble and complain, Isabelle was no one’s fool. How often had she debated with him, sometimes for the entire class period, on some point that most of the others found trivial. Yet she never had, and more often than not, he’d spend the entire walk home pondering the questions that she’d inadvertently raised in his mind.

He almost smiled as he turned down the quiet street that led toward his side of town. The apartment buildings that were so prevalent closer to campus slowly gave way to small, tired looking houses without a discernable transition. Four blocks away from the last of the apartment houses, the tiny lawns that stretched out in front of the cottages grew a little larger, a little better kempt, and he knew well enough that further along, those places would merge into the even more spacious homes of the area where he lived. His was probably the smallest house in the area, come to think of it, but it didn’t draw notice or detract from the setting, hidden as it was behind a line of trees near the road.

“ _I’ll be back, Dr. Marin_ . . .”

Griffin’s peaceful musings dissipated as the sound of the panther-youkai’s voice whispered in his head. What was it about him that made Griffin feel so uneasy?

Letting out a deep breath, he adjusted his grip on the cane and kept moving. ‘ _Duncan McCaffrey . . . Duncan McCaffrey . . . Why does that name seem almost . . . familiar . . .?_ ’

Veering over to the nondescript bench on the corner of Hadley and Gardenia, Griffin set the briefcase down and dug the cell phone out of it. Isabelle had stuck it in there, telling him with a smile that if he missed her, he could call her. He’d snorted, turned red, and assured her that he’d do no such thing, but at the moment, he was rather glad that she’d done it. It took him another minute to dig the scrap of paper that had Attean’s number on it out of his wallet.

“Afternoon, Griffin. I suppose you’re calling to talk me out of bringing Maria down for a visit?” the hanyou greeted.

“Uh, no,” Griffin muttered, sticking the briefcase under the same arm that held the cane as he started walking again. “You ever heard of a youkai named Duncan McCaffrey?”

“Youkai? What kind of youkai?”

Griffin blinked as the cloud that had obscured the sun shifted suddenly. “P-panther,” he managed, wishing that he had a free hand to shield his eyes from the brightness.

“A panther . . .” Attean repeated thoughtfully. “No, I can’t say I have. Why?”

Griffin grunted. “No reason . . . he stopped in at the university to ask me to translate something for him. That’s all.”

Attean sighed. “This is the first time someone has asked you to do such a thing?”

“No . . . It’s just . . . a feeling,” he muttered, suddenly feeling a little ridiculous about the entire situation. “Maybe I’m . . . being paranoid or something . . .”

“No, no . . .” Attean agreed quickly. “You’ve always had good instincts. Was there anything in particular that bothered you about this Duncan fellow?”

Catching the cell phone between his shoulder and ear, Griffin pulled the card out of his pocket and frowned at it. “He seemed a little . . . pushy, I guess . . . Didn’t like it when I said I wasn’t interested.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“No,” Griffin said with a shake of his head. “Can you do me a . . . a favor?”

Attean chuckled. “Certainly.”

“If I give you a number, can you trace it? I mean, it’s on his card, but . . .”

“Sure.”

Griffin read the number and hung up after Attean’s promise that he’d call back in a few minutes.

He was nearly halfway home when the phone rang, grinding out that God-forsaken song that Griffin detested but had yet to replace, and with a muttered curse, he dug the device out of his pocket and snorted. His only real solace was the fact that Attean had no idea what sort of ringtone he had.

“Griffin, hello again. I ran that number.”

“And?” he prompted without bothering with niceties.

“And,” Attean hedged with a sigh. “I am not certain what to make of it.”

“Just cut to the chase, Attean,” Griffin grumbled impatiently. Unable to place why, exactly, for some reason, the sense of foreboding that he couldn’t make sense of was growing steadily worse.

“That’s just it,” he replied smoothly. “The cell phone _is_ registered to a Duncan McCaffrey, but according to public record, the man was found dead outside Heathrow Airport less than a month ago. A heart attack, they said.”

“A heart attack,” he repeated, unconsciously quickening his step.

“There’s more,” Attean went on in a completely reticent tone.

“More?”

“Mm,” he intoned. “It didn’t sit well with me, either, so I ran a few other checks, and it seems that the man I told you about the last time we spoke—you remember?”

“Y-Yeah,” Griffin huffed, grimacing as the dull ache in his hip blossomed into a full-out scream for pity when he jogged across an intersection in time to beat the pedestrian light. “Gregory, right? Alastair Gregory?”

“That’s the one,” Attean agreed. “My sources tell me that he is missing, as well—and that he hasn’t been seen in about a month.”

“What does he look like?” Griffin demanded in a throaty growl.

“Come again?”

“ _What the hell does he look like?_ ” Griffin bellowed, drawing quite a few odd looks from other people on the street.

Attean heaved an audible sigh. “He is a panther-youkai,” he finally stated. “Griffin, call the Zelig. Alastair Gregory . . . You do not know his ilk! Take your Isabelle and get her away, but call the Zelig and let him deal with Gregory!”

“Thanks,” Griffin bit out, clicking off the device and stuffing it into his pocket as he cursed himself a thousand times for not being more careful as far as she was concerned. “ _Damn it!_ ” he fumed, ducking into an alley and casting a quick glance around to make sure he wasn’t being watched. He wasn’t sure why he felt such a horrible sense of urgency, but he didn’t question it, either. Glancing at his watch, he scowled. He wasn’t certain when Isabelle had called to leave that message, but the way it was worded made him seriously doubt that she’d be home already, and whether Gregory had figured out where she was or even how she fit into the picture, he wasn’t about to parade her in front of the miscreant to find out . . .

‘ _Calm down, Griffin . . ._ think! _Do you really think that he’d have searched you out if he knew you already had a connection with her?_ ’

That thought worked to take the edge off the panic though it didn’t alleviate it by any means. ‘ _Right . . . right . . . That’d be stupid, wouldn’t it?_ ’

‘ _It would be . . . so find out where she is right now, and get her out of here!_ ’

‘ _Y-Yeah_ . . .’

Digging out the cell phone once more, he dialed the first number—Isabelle’s number. It rang four times then shuffled him off to her voicemail as he growled in irritation and leapt onto the nearest building, ignoring the growing ache in his body as he hung up and redialed. It took four tries before the call was finally answered, and by then, Griffin was damn near close to breaking the idiotic device.

“Yes?” the surly voice answered.

“Why are you answering Isabelle’s cell? Where is she?” he demanded.

Gunnar snorted. “Because you called it,” he replied in a clipped tone that matched Griffin’s.

“She’s home?” Griffin asked, ignoring the sarcastic answer he’d received.

“No, she’s not. She just forgot her phone.”

“So she’s still at the hospital,” he concluded.

“Yeah, I guess,” Gunnar replied in a completely disgruntled sort of way, his voice thick and heavy with the remnants of sleep.

“All right,” Griffin said, feeling a little more of the consuming panic loosen its grip on his nerves. “If she gets there, make her go straight inside and don’t let her so much as set a foot outside.”

There was a very pregnant silence on the other end of the line that lasted for a good few minutes before Gunnar cleared his throat in preface to what he was going to say. “You’re one of those sick bastards who won’t let his mate do anything without consulting you first?”

Stifling the urge to growl, Griffin didn’t bother to respond to that. “Just make sure she does what I say.”

He hung up, altering his path to intercept her at the hospital. If he could reach her before she went back to the house, no one would be the wiser . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle turned down the street that led to the small house behind the row of trees with a wan but genuine smile on her lips, flicking her wrist to adjust her watch as she shot it a cursory glance. ‘ _A quarter after two_ ,’ she thought as her smile widened. ‘ _Not bad, not bad_ . . .’

Actually, she figured that ‘not bad’ was a bit of an understatement. The baby she’d just finished delivering had arrived in record time, or so it would seem. Actually, she’d barely managed to get scrubbed up before the nurse had run in to hurry her along since the baby was already crowning.

She was tired, yes, but it was a good kind of tired.

Her smile widened as she turned into the driveway beside Gunnar’s car and shut off the engine, laughing to herself when she climbed out of the vehicle, pausing for a minute to look around, momentarily dazzled by the shades of green, the slight graying in the blue tinted skies . . . What was it about seeing the start of a new life that never failed to make her see things in a whole new light?

‘ _It’s a beautiful thing_ ,’ she decided with a little giggle as she darted toward the house.

The silence that greeted her was comforting, and she dropped her purse and keys onto the table, bracing herself against it as she kicked off her shoes. The first order of business was to fill the tea kettle to make sure that the water was hot when Griffin got home since she knew well enough that he would head for a mug of tea first thing.

Considering she’d only been gone a few hours, she figured that Gunnar was probably still sleeping off the medicine she’d forced down his throat before she’d left the house, and she shook her head as a smile played at the corners of her lips when she opened the guest bedroom door and spotted him asleep on the bed.

Tilting her head to the side, she bit her lip and glanced at her watch again. After his irritation with her at having been forced to take the acetaminophen, she figured that letting him sleep a while longer would be the least she could do. Besides that, his coloring was a little better, and that was a good sign.

Carefully pulling the door closed behind herself, Isabelle shuffled down the hallway to change clothes, mentally planning what she ought to make for dinner. Griffin was partial to fish, of course, and that would probably be best for Gunnar’s still shaky constitution if he felt up to eating. She was pretty sure that there were enough new potatoes in the bin for a side dish, too.

Dropping the sensible slacks and blouse on the bed, she pulled on a simple yellow sundress and hurriedly pulled her hair back into a ponytail, pausing long enough to grab her charm bracelet—Griffin’s gift last Christmas—off the bureau since she never wore it to work before she headed back down the hallway again.

She did a double take as she glanced at the small table beside Griffin’s recliner and made a face. She’d been in such a hurry earlier that she hadn’t even brought in the poor man’s newspaper. Shaking her head at her own forgetfulness, she strode through the room and into the foyer, whistling for Charlie—when had she stopped thinking of her dog as ‘Froofie’, she wondered.

The dog came galloping up the stairs from the basement, busting through the recently installed dog door with a happy whine, his claws clicking on the hardwood floor as he skittered to her side. “Shall we go get the paper for Daddy?” she asked, kneeling down and grasping the animal’s ruff and giving him an affectionate shake.

Charlie licked her cheek and did a silly little dance as Isabelle stood up and reached for the handle.

He ran down the steps and into the yard with a series of delighted barks as Isabelle retrieved the mail from the nondescript black box beside the door. She gave the mail a cursory glance, deciding that there wasn’t anything important, before she turned to look for the newspaper. It wasn’t lying on the porch, and she shook her head but smiled, wondering if they’d gotten a new paperboy or something.

She’d just finished searching through the short bushes in front of the house for the missing paper when Charlie erupted in a low growl—a warning growl. “What’s the matter, Charlie?” she asked quietly, scratching him behind the ears.

“Excuse me.”

Isabelle blinked and lifted her gaze to meet the sooty eyes of a man she’d never seen before as he slowly walked up the driveway from the street. “Hello,” she called back.

“I’m new to the area,” the man said as he strode closer. “I thought perhaps you could help me.”

Charlie’s growl grew deeper, interrupting Isabelle before she could respond, and she glanced down at him for a moment before casting the stranger an apologetic sort of smile. “Oh, uh, sure, just a minute . . . I’m sorry . . . He’s normally not like this . . . Come on, Charlie . . . let’s go back inside, hmm?”

The dog uttered another warning growl, the short, coarse hairs on the back of his neck standing up straight. ‘ _Not . . . Lor-r-rd Bear-r_ ,’ Charlie said. ‘ _Str-r-ranger go away-y-y_ . . .’

Isabelle broke into a smile at the title that Charlie had decided should be Griffin’s, but she slipped her index finger under his collar and tugged gently to get the animal to follow. “You be good; do you hear?” she scolded.

He didn’t seem like he wanted to cooperate, but he didn’t complain any more as she led him back up onto the porch and pushed him into the house. ‘ _It’s a little odd, isn’t it?_ ’ she thought distractedly as she bit her lip and glanced back at the front door. Charlie was one of the friendliest dogs she’d ever seen, so his reaction to the stranger seemed a little alarming. A strange sort of uneasiness prickled her spine, and she quickly shook her head. ‘ _Don’t be silly!_ ’ she chastised herself. ‘ _He said he was new to the area, right . . .?_ ’ “Sorry about that,” she apologized again, bowing slightly as she offered the man—youkai—a small smile. “You said that you needed help?”

“I wondered if you would be able to tell me where to find an address,” he replied, reaching into his inner breast pocket for a slip of paper that he held out to her.

She stared at him for a moment before hesitantly reaching for it, all too aware of the ruckus Charlie was making on the other side of the front door. “O-oh,” she said, all too aware of the slight tremor in her voice as she forced a smile. There was something altogether disturbing about the man’s youki. It felt stagnant—empty—almost menacing, and without realizing what she was doing, she leaned away from him. “I-I don’t think—” she began but cut herself off with a sharp gasp when his hand flashed out, wrapping around her wrist and dragging her off the porch and onto the sidewalk. “Let go of me,” she commanded in a much more self-assured tone than she was actually feeling.

His claws dug into the soft flesh of her wrist as he jerked her upright when she stumbled, his midnight eyes shining with a manic sort of light. Face contorting in an evil grin, he dug his claws in a little deeper and uttered a dry, rasping chuckle that sounded rusty from years of disuse. “On the contrary, Miss Izayoi. I insist.”

Her eyes flared wide as she stared at the youkai. Slowly, so slowly, his lips twisted into a cynical smile—a coldness underlying the expression that chilled her to her core. He looked like he enjoyed hurting people; like he wanted nothing more than to cut her down where she stood. She’d never seen that much hatred before, and she’d never had it directed at her . . . “Wh-who are you?” she whispered with a shake of her head, struggling to remain calm when all she really wanted to do was to scream at the top of her lungs. “How do you know my name?”

“You don’t need to know,” he informed her as that nasty little grin widened. “But you _do_ have something that I want—something that belongs to me . . . and now . . . now I understand.”

‘ _What does he . . . understand . . .?_ ’ She blinked and clenched her jaw for a moment, willing away the sting of pain that erupted around the youkai’s claws that were still embedded in her wrist. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied quietly even as the stirrings of comprehension dawned inside her. ‘ _The . . . the research . . . He’s . . . he’s the one who . . . and Griffin_ . . .’

The youkai jerked her forward, letting go of her wrist and snaking an arm around her waist in one fluid motion, smashing her back against his chest as he forced her to move toward the driveway—toward the nondescript black sedan still running where it sat. “Now you’ll do what I say, Miss Izayoi,” he murmured into her ear. “It may mean the difference between a quick, painless death . . . and . . . _not_.”

She heard the whisper of sound, the dull thump behind them. All at once a familiar presence—the comfort of an aura that she knew—nearly made her knees buckle as a surge of relief shot through her.

“The _hell_ it will.”

With a gasp, Isabelle tried to jerk away from her captor at the sound of that voice as she tried to keep herself upright. She only got a glimpse of _him_ before the stranger jerked her around again, his claws digging into her hip on one side, the tender flesh of her breast on the other. Unable to repress the low moan that escaped her, she wasn’t entirely certain which provocation made him react: the scent of her blood or the sound that she couldn’t hold in. Either way, the air was drenched in the menacing sound of the bear-youkai’s growl—a sound meant to reassure her as well as to warn off the enemy. When the foreign youkai carted around without letting go of her, Isabelle had to blink at the completely impassive expression on Griffin’s face—the absolute and total rage that burned so deeply within the eyes she knew so very well.

Griffin was breathing hard, a bead of sweat trailing a path down his cheek, and he didn’t even glance at her as he glared at the strange youkai. Leaning heavily on his cane, he shuffled his feet slightly, his youkai crackling, tingling in the early afternoon’s weak and watery sunshine.

The panther-youkai laughed, an ominous rumble that seemed to surround the area, carried on the wind that rose from the north. “Ah, Dr. Marin . . . so good of you to join us. Tell me . . .” he drawled, digging his claws in just a little deeper and chuckling again as Isabelle groaned. “Is this little bit of baggage worth your trouble?”

Griffin’s growl grew louder, more malevolent, his rage taking on an electric sort of undercurrent as he narrowed his eyes slightly, as an unearthly reddish hue ignited in his stare. Her discomfort was fueling his rage, and, biting her cheek hard, she tried to get herself under control before Griffin completely lost his control.

The panther-youkai seemed to realize it, too, and he laughed, letting go of her breast and slowly drawing his hand up, extending the claw of his index finger, methodically dragging it from the top of her cheek diagonally toward the corner of her lips, a small trickle of blood seeping into the incision, trailing down her skin. She didn’t make a sound, and she didn’t take her eyes off Griffin, either.

Hand tightening on his cane, he didn’t change expression, and he didn’t lower his eyes from the youkai’s face, though there wasn’t a doubt in Isabelle’s mind that he knew exactly what Alastair had done. “Get your damn hands off her or I swear on all that’s holy, I’ll kill you.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final_** **_Thought_** **_from_** **_Griffin_** :  
>  _… Lord Bear …?_


	68. Worthy

Biting off the growl that he hadn't been able to contain, Griffin didn't blink as he stared the youkai down. "I said let her go," he ground out from between clenched teeth.

"I want that research," Alastair intoned, digging his claws deeper into the soft flesh of Isabelle's hip. She bit her lip, wincing at the blood that pooled in her mouth.

"Why?" Griffin challenged. "Why do you want it?"

"That is none of your concern," he spat, shaking Isabelle roughly when she started to struggle.

"If you hurt her, Zelig will destroy the research," Griffin warned.

"I think not," he rebuked. "Zelig is a fool—he and his ilk perpetuate the hanyou like a virus—like a _plague_."

Griffin snorted. "Spare me your sob story, will you? Let her go, and get the hell off my property, Alastair."

The youkai chuckled. "So you know my name," he mused. "You're much cleverer than you look."

"I know enough," Griffin replied tightly.

"Then you know that I won't be leaving without the research . . . or would you like to see her in pieces?"

Griffin started to move forward but stopped when Alastair flexed his claws again. "You'll let her go?" he asked slowly, narrowing his eyes as he stared at the youkai. "If I give you that damned research . . ."

" _No!_ " Isabelle yelled in a throaty breath. "No, Griffin!"

"Don't be stupid, Isabelle," he growled.

"Stupid! _Stupid!_ " she fumed. "I'll show you ' _stupid'_ , Griffin Marin!"

Without another thought, she reached out with her free hand and dug her claws through the fabric of the panther-youkai's suit into the flesh of his arm just below the elbow, uttering a growl of her own as she raked downward, along the length of the arm that was holding onto her hip. His grip loosened as he snarled angrily, and he started to tighten it again, but Isabelle was faster. Jerking her arm free, she twisted slightly, swinging her arm over her chest and back, aiming upward as she whipped around, loosening his hold on her as her elbow connected with the youkai's windpipe. He staggered back with a choked gasp, and before Isabelle could think to move away, another hand caught her wrist, yanked her back with a hasty shove, and she tumbled onto the grass as the blur that was Griffin flashed past her.

"Get inside, Isabelle!" he snarled as he lunged at Alastair, who managed to evade the fist that Griffin had aimed directly at his heart. He spun to the side as the unmistakable crunch of splintering bone filled the air. Chest heaving as he flicked his hand, sending a fine spatter of blood flying from his fingertips, the youkai rubbed his throat then gripped his broken arm, glowering at Griffin and grunting in obvious pain.

Griffin's forward momentum carried him past the youkai, and Isabelle winced as his fist slammed into the concrete driveway. The groan that resounded made her grimace, and she watched in stunned amazement as the solid surface crumbled as though the very earth below had shifted. He rose slowly, his head snapping to the side to pin the panther-youkai with a dark glower. His gaze flicked over Isabelle, who was kneeling on the grass, and he shook his head slightly. "I told you to get in the damn house, woman," he growled as he slowly turned to face his opponent.

It was on the tip of her tongue to argue with him, but something about his stance stopped her. Too angry, too controlled . . . She watched for a moment as he straightened his back and advanced on the youkai, and whether the slight limp in his gait was apparent to the stranger or not was irrelevant. It was obvious to her. He might be doing well at the moment, but she didn't delude herself into believing that he could hold his own if the fight dragged on . . .

It was that thought that galvanized her into action. Stumbling to her feet and ignoring the dull, throbbing ache in her hip, she ran up the steps and into the house.

The phone receiver wasn't on the base unit—Griffin must have left it downstairs after he'd gotten off the phone with Maria—and with a smothered gasp, she whipped around, smashing her palm against her forehead as she struggled to calm down so that she could think.

"What's going on?" Gunnar asked, leaning heavily against the wall as he stepped out of the hallway with Charlie dancing around his feet. He looked like he was still feeling a bit nauseous, and she grimaced when she saw the deep purple smudges under his eyes. "What happened to your face?"

She shot him a cursory glance and ignored his terse question. "Have you seen my cell?" she demanded with a frown, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. "And you need to go back to bed."

He snorted. "Keh! Your damn dog kept licking my hand and whining. Kept saying something about 'Lord Bear'—I assume he means that damned bear you live with?"

"Shut up!" she yelled, brushing past him and darting down the hallway. The last place she'd had her phone was in Gunnar's room, and with a hoarse cry, she spotted it on the floor beside the bed. Snatching it up, her fingers were trembling as she dialed the phone and ran back into the living room again. Bas answered after the second ring.

"Bitty? Hi . . ."

"Bastian! The guy who was after the research is here, and Griffin—"

"Shit!" Bas growled, cutting Isabelle off short. "I'm at Dad's . . . Is Gunnar still there? Can he fight?

"Griffin is," she muttered, glancing out the living room window and grimacing. The panther-youkai sprang toward Griffin, who was kneeling on the ground roughly where Isabelle had been, but Griffin whipped around, jamming his arms out straight just in time to catch the panther in the center of his chest and send him skidding back.

"Where's Gunnar?" Bas demanded.

The youkai slid across the ground, his hair now free from the ponytail that had held it back, the tendrils curling around him like macabre wings. As he slid, he drew his right hand over his left shoulder and snapped it down, unleashing a barrage of energy beams from the tips of his fingers. "Gunnar's not—" Cutting herself off as a loud shriek tumbled from her lips, she tossed the phone at Gunnar as she broke for the door. Griffin had seen them coming and had tried to dodge, but one of them had caught his shoulder, sending him sprawling backward.

Gunnar grabbed her wrist as she tried to run past him. " _No!_ " he growled, jerking her back. "Don't be stupid!"

"Let go!" she bellowed, swinging her arm wildly to dislodge his hold on her. "He's going to—"

"Isabelle! No!" Gunnar intoned, giving her a rough shake. "I'll do it."

"No! You can't!" she hissed, yanking herself free. "You aren't fit to fight!"

He started to argue with her. She didn't listen. Dashing into the foyer, she jerked the door open and ran outside, scanning the yard wildly as the abrasive rub of the two conflicting youki surged and frothed.

"—is she . . . to you . . .?" she heard the panther's voice.

Her head snapped to the side, and she sucked in a sharp breath. Somehow, Griffin had managed to get a hold of Alastair and held him suspended against the house with his claws imbedded into the tender flesh around the youkai's windpipe.

Griffin growled, bearing his fangs in a distorted grimace as she shook the panther then slammed him back against the wall with enough force that the structure groaned. "She's my _mate_ ," he replied coldly, "and you will not hurt her!"

' _Stop him!_ ' she thought wildly as a choking sort of gurgle escaped the trapped youkai. ' _Stop him or he'll_ —'

Eyes flashing wide as realization dawned on her a moment later, Isabelle ran, only one thought clear in her mind: ' _He can't do it! He can't be responsible for another death; not when he already thinks he's to blame for so many others_ . . .'

Stubbing her toe against the squat stone beside the walk that Griffin used as a shoe scraper, she caught herself before she fell and stumbled forward. ' _Stop him; stop him; stop him_ . . .'

"Griffin!" she screamed, latching onto his arm and pulling to no avail. Tendons constricted, muscles bulging, he ignored her as he might a fly at a picnic and tightened his grip. Rivulets of blood oozed around his claws, running down the youkai's neck as his face mottled from an unnatural shade of red to a grotesque grayish-purple. It wouldn't take much to rip Alastair's throat wide open, and Isabelle wasn't entirely convinced that Griffin had it in him to stop, either. "No!" she yelled, futilely tugging on Griffin's arm.

"I told you to go inside," he snarled without taking his eyes off the youkai. The panther latched onto Griffin's wrist, tugging, yanking, rending the flesh in an entirely pathetic attempt to gain his freedom.

"You _can't_ kill him!" she pleaded, tears springing to cloud her vision. She could feel him drawing away from her, and somehow she understood that if he did this, she would lose him forever. Eyes tinged in a red hue, they fluctuated from brown to red in the space of a heartbeat. "Griffin, _please!_ "

"He— _hurt_ —you!" Griffin growled, underlining every word with fierce motion as he slammed the youkai against the wall again and again. "He can't—"

"Maybe _he_ can't," she blurted, shaking her head as she pulled on his arm. "But neither can _you!_ Griffin . . . _please_ don't . . ."

She wasn't sure exactly what part of her plea had reached him. Slowly turning his head to look at her, his eyes pulsed once more before they reverted to the brown she knew, and for only an instant, she saw the emotion that had goaded him: the consuming fear that he could have been just a little too late. An unnatural brightness brought on by a wash of moisture filtered over his eyes, and for the briefest of moments, his grip on the panther's neck loosened.

Alastair seized the opportunity to shoved Griffin away, unleashing another round of energy spears as he fell to the ground. They struck Griffin in the center of his chest, tossing him back as though he were little more than a rag doll as his blood arced in a fine sheen of spray in his wake—as Isabelle shrieked his name.

He advanced on Isabelle as he breathed hard. Backing away as she tried not to look to see where Griffin had landed, she tried to keep her distance from him. "You are nothing but a thorn in my side," he growled, his eyes flashing with the animosity that he couldn't repress. "You stole what's mine—mine!"

"Yours?" she challenged, glancing over at Griffin, who lay on his side, unmoving, in the grass. "You killed Kennedy Carradine, didn't you?"

He laughed. "You ignorant little girl! Of course I did—and I killed his idiot brother, as well."

Wincing when she backed against her car, she tried to step to the side. Alastair raised his hand, cracked his knuckles, his fingertips erupting in a hazy glow.

A ball of white energy whipped over Alastair's shoulder, traveling so close that it singed his cheek before he had a chance to jump to the side. Flying straight past Isabelle, it kept moving, gaining speed until it smashed into a tree on the far side of the driveway with a resounding crash.

Blinking since the ball of energy had affected her vision, she shook her head as though she were trying to alleviate the effect.

"Isabelle!" Gunnar's voice rang out as he slowly stepped off the porch.  "Get your bear and help him inside." Narrowing his gaze on the panther-youkai, Gunnar cracked his knuckles and flexed his fingers. "I'll deal with him."

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" Gunnar demanded as he squared his shoulders and regarded the strange youkai as Isabelle darted over to Griffin's side. The bear had been knocked unconscious for a moment, but he was slowly starting to move on his own—enough of a consolation, as far as Gunnar was concerned. He'd seen Isabelle's valiant display of stupidity, throwing herself right into harm's way, it seemed, and while he could appreciate her sentiments, he couldn't help the raw irritation that she'd do something as blatantly stupid as rush headlong into the fray.

The youkai took his time, letting his gaze roam over Gunnar's face, assessing his physical strength. He seemed surprised by the ears perched atop Gunnar's head—the ears that proclaimed his heritage louder than anything else could—and for a moment, the absolute disdain that slammed down over the youkai's face was impossible to ignore.

Lifting his chin stubbornly—proudly, Gunnar didn't back down. If the youkai were foolish enough to discount Gunnar solely on the fact that he was hanyou then Gunnar figured that he deserved whatever he got for his the gross slight.

"The grandson of the Inu no Taisho," the youkai stated in an amused tone. "I tell you, boy: go home before you get hurt."

Ignoring the bile that rose in his throat, Gunnar wasn't about to let the youkai see that he wasn't feeling entirely himself at the moment. "Who are you, and what do you want?" he repeated, refusing to lower himself to the goading that the stranger seemed inclined to indulge himself in. He could discern the sounds of Isabelle helping Griffin to his feet, and while he didn't doubt for a moment that the bear was anything but happy at being escorted indoors, he also must have decided that Isabelle's safety depended upon it since she wasn't likely to remain in the house if he refused to go with her.

"My apologies," he said, making a mockery of a bow in Gunnar's direction without lowering his gaze as was proper—a slight that did not go unnoticed. "I am Lord Alastair Gregory, and I've come to collect something that was stolen from me."

Nonplussed by the name that the youkai had supplied, Gunnar shrugged offhandedly. "Your name means nothing to me, _Lord_ Alastair Gregory," he assured the youkai with an arrogant shrug. "Don't make the mistake of thinking that I do not realize that you're simply biding your time while you catch your breath . . . Was that damned old bear too much for the likes of you?"

The youkai erupted in an angry growl. Gunnar didn't even blink.

The first volley of energy spears were simple enough to evade, and the irritation that registered on Gregory's face was ironic, at best. Ducking to the side to avoid the blast, Gunnar sprinted forward, drawing his claws back as a low hum reverberated in his ears. Cleaving through the air with a broad sweep of his hand, he just missed Alastair when the youkai dove to the side and rolled to his feet before springing directly at Gunnar to unleash an attack of his own.

"Don't insult me!" he bellowed as Gunnar rolled out of the way to avoid taking the hit. Kicking out his legs and whipping around on his hands, he caught Gregory's ankle with his foot, laying the youkai flat on his back before pushing off the ground and springing backward, lighting on his feet a safe distance away from the panther's reach.

The motion of his own movements was enough to bring a bitter surge of nausea to the fore, and Gunnar bit down hard, jamming his teeth together to keep himself from vomiting. ' _Damn it_ . . .'

The youkai pushed himself to his feet, swiping his palm over the still trickling flow of blood that ran down his neck, glowering intently at Gunnar as he slowly started to circle, leaving himself a wide berth lest Gunnar should launch another attack. "What's the matter, _Lord_ Gregory?" Gunnar taunted. "Is This Mamoruzen too much for the likes of you?"

Alastair's youki spiked, his anger a viable thing, as he narrowed his eyes, as a flash of red seeped into his gaze. The manner of youkai who hated to admit that a hanyou—any hanyou—might be his equal, let alone his better . . . they sickened Gunnar.

With an irate howl, the youkai dashed forward, his body little more than a blur of motion. Gunnar managed to hop back just in time to avoid taking a hit, but he didn't have time to gloat as he sprang off the ground again when Gregory took another swipe at him.

Raising his hand, he unleashed a glowing ball of energy straight at the youkai. It wasn't an attack that he used often. It tended to physically drain him fairly quickly, but given the circumstances, he didn't really have a choice, either. That damned Marin wasn't in any kind of shape to fight this particular youkai. ' _What the hell was he thinking . . .?_ '

The ball of light hit the ground at Alastair's feet, shaking the earth and exploding on impact, enveloping the form of the youkai and capturing him in an eerie glow. Landing in a crouch, Gunnar slowly pushed himself to his feet, staring unblinking as the light expanded and contracted before fading out completely.

Alastair wasn't there.

' _What the . . .? He couldn't have evaded that attack!_ ' Gunnar thought. He hadn't seen the youkai dodge it, and he could still feel Gregory's malignant aura.

With an angry hiss, Gunnar glanced down and leapt back to avoid the direct impact as a four-foot circle started to glow beneath him. Moments later, a solid fountain of pure energy shot out of the circle, catching Gunnar in the outer perimeter as every single nerve in his body shot to life in brilliant pain.

He heard himself scream as his body started to fall. Squeezing his eyes closed as he smashed into the ground, flat on his back, he couldn't seem to catch his breath. His body wouldn't cooperate with his mind's dictates, and he forced his eyes open in time to see Gregory slowly pushing himself up out of the ground.

Summoning every last bit of willpower that he possessed, Gunnar forced himself to move. Rolling to the side, pushing himself up on his hands and knees, he couldn't control the rise of nausea that hit him hard as he retched and heaved.  He struggled to push himself up but couldn't. His body was too weary from days spent sick after the second test to withstand the brunt of Gregory's attack—an attack that me might have otherwise anticipated were it not for the weakened state he was suffering.

Gregory's laughter started low: a chuckle that escalated into a harsh, cloying sound. Left arm dangling uselessly at his side, he raised his right hand and cracked his knuckles, his eyes pulsating from red to black as he poised himself to strike.

A ball of energy cut through the air with a high-pitched whistle. Slamming into the center of Alastair's chest, it blew the youkai back, bearing him against the thick, gnarled trunk of a white ash tree on the far side of Griffin's driveway. The youkai crumpled to the ground as a thick cloud of dust and splinters of wood rained down, and Gunnar blinked, shaking his head. The tree was gone—obliterated. He didn't have time to think about that, though, as warm hands—strong hands—wrapped around his arm and pulled him to his feet.

"You all right?" Cain Zelig asked, his eyes shifting over Gunnar's face in a quick assessment of his physical state.

"Y-Yeah," Gunnar muttered as another wave of nausea hit him.

"Isabelle?"

He jerked his head toward the house but didn't speak, concentrating instead on not throwing up.

"Go inside. Make sure she's safe," Cain commanded, letting go of Gunnar's arm. "I'll take care of him."

"Earth . . . earth elemental youkai . . ." Gunnar mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he started to turn away. "He can go underground . . . damn cats . . ."

"Thanks," Cain said, turning his attention to the youkai who was still lying on the ground. "Who is he?"

Gunnar snorted though the sound was weary, weakened. "Alastair Gregory— _Lord_ Alastair Gregory, he said."

Cain nodded slowly. "I see."

Without another comment, Gunnar turned and walked away.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Taking a moment to steady his nerves, Cain drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders, willing away the consuming worry that had closed in on him during the short trip from his mansion in Bevelle. The normally hour long drive was replaced by a quicker route via his energy form, and he'd made it to Bangor in about fifteen minutes. What was that old phrase? A miss was as good as a mile? Somehow, though, he couldn't help but feel that it was a hollow victory because the sight of Gunnar, on his hands and knees with the youkai poised over him to strike was entirely too vivid in his mind to forget any time soon. As good as Gunnar was at fighting, he wasn't over the effects of the clinical trial, and if he were the one fighting, just how bad off was Dr. Marin?

"Who do you work for?" Cain demanded, stepping forward when the youkai started to sit up.

The panther didn't answer as he braced his weight on his right hand and pushed himself to his feet. Upon closer inspection, Cain realized that the youkai's left arm had to be broken. He drew a series of ragged breaths, and his dark eyes narrowed when he finally looked at Cain. "So I rank the attention of the Zelig, himself? How flattering," he sneered.

"Who are you working for?" Cain repeated.

"Do not make me laugh!" he scoffed, his gaze igniting in irate fire. "I bow to no one!"

"Alastair Gregory, I must ask that you come with me for questioning," Cain said, stepping toward the youkai in question without taking his eyes off him.

"I think not!" Gregory hissed, unleashing a volley of energy spears at him. Cain didn't try to sidestep them, simply knocking them away with the back of his hand just before they struck him. They fizzled and sputtered then died away without leaving a mark on the tai-youkai. "That research was meant to be mine!"

"Was it?" Cain asked with a raised eyebrow as a strange sense of foreboding registered in his head. "You . . . you are the one who killed Dr. Avis," he mused.

"That coward!" Alastair spit, lurching to the side in a pathetic effort to stalk around Cain. "He couldn't even do the basest of tasks! So enamored of his dead love's daughter . . . weak and pathetic!"

Cain chuckled though his tone lacked any real humor as he shook his head. "And you think that preying upon those weaker than you makes you any less pathetic? If everyone lived by your skewed sense of power, then there really wouldn't be anything left in this world worth protecting."

"And what do you protect?" Alastair snarled, balling up his fist and clenching it tight. "Do you protect those perversities of nature? Those hanyou? Do you protect the secrets so that we may flourish in the shadows? The glory of our kind reduced to myth and lore, and you—you are content to let it remain so!" Uttering an infuriated growl, the youkai smashed his fist into the ground, sending a furrow of earth straight at him as Cain's vision blurred, impaired by the debris that erupted from the chasm.

Lifting his hand, he unleashed a ball of energy to intercept Alastair's attack, narrowing his eyes and shielding his face against the unnatural wind and light. He could sense the panther's approach. In the commotion of the attack, the miscreant had thought to try to gain an advantage by sneaking in. Lowering his arms, Cain leveled his stare at Gregory and did not back away when the youkai lunged at him.

Alastair slashed his claws, only to have his attacks repelled easily, unceremoniously. Snagging the sleeve of the plain white cotton shirt that Cain wore, he smiled with a sense of grim satisfaction when the fabric of his sleeve ripped under his claws. Cain narrowed his eyes and shoved the panther back a few steps. "Ruining a shirt is hardly grounds for celebration," he pointed out without bothering to inspect the garment.

"I'll take you apart, piece by piece if I have to," Alastair promised. "Tai-youkai . . ."

"Are you challenging me?" Cain asked slowly.

"You don't deserve a formal challenge!"

Springing out of the way when Alastair shot forward again, Cain landed a few feet away. Alastair's rage was spiraling rapidly, resounding in the atmosphere like a series of fireworks being set off. Suspiciously close to losing himself to the hatred that consumed him, he unleashed a furious yowl that rang in Cain's ears long after the actual sound had ended.

Dashing toward him, arm outstretched, he swung at Cain yet again. He was careless in his frustration, and careless, Cain knew, could also mean dangerous.

The years of instruction he'd been given when he lived with Sesshoumaru rang in his head: " _Never lose yourself to anger, Zelig. It will avail you nothing, and that anger can be used against you. If you give in to base emotion, you will die._ "

It was one of the few times that Sesshoumaru had actually said much of anything, and now he understood. This fight had to end, and it had to end quickly. He wasn't sure how it had escaped the notice of the humans in the area for this long—possibly because many of them were away from their homes at the moment—but the longer it dragged on, the more likely it would be that the human authorities _would_ be called, and that was something that Cain couldn't let happen . . .

Alastair sprang at him again, and this time, Cain jumped to intercept him. The dull scrape of claws against bone echoed in the clearing moments before a howl of pain drowned out the echo. The sensation—akin to running one's fingernails over sandpaper—shot straight up Cain's arm as Alastair fell in a tangled heap on the unforgiving earth. Cain shifted his body, twisted in the air to land facing the panther-youkai.

Grunting, breathing shallow and stunted, the youkai slowly pushed himself up on his knees as he gingerly flexed his right hand, shaking the appendage as the fresh tinge of blood invaded Cain's senses. The silence that had fallen was unnatural, punctuated only by the plop of blood hitting the broken pavement of the driveway as it dripped from Alastair's hand.

"Give up, Gregory," Cain remarked in an even tone.

"That will not happen!" Alastair growled, unleashing another round of energy spears at him. Unlike the first time he'd tried that, the spears were wider in berth—a sure sign that the youkai was wearing down. Spikes of that nature would do more damage if they were closer together and impacted as one. Alastair was losing control of his abilities, and given the situation, Cain wasn't entirely certain whether or not that was a positive thing.

Cain rolled out of the way but gasped as one of the spears grazed his cheek, and with an irritated growl, he pushed off the ground to avoid Gregory's descending fist. The spray of dirt and grass that exploded under him sprayed up around him, tearing across the ground with uncanny speed as Alastair leapt to meet him.

Slashing wildly, Alastair cut through the softer flesh of Cain's side. With a grunt as pain erupted in his head, the tai-youkai latched onto Alastair's arm, jerking him forward as he extended the heel of his hand and let go. Catching the panther in the center of his chest, Alastair flew backward, tumbling, rolling, even as the first droplets of rain started to fall.

Landing on his feet in a crouch, Cain slid back a few feet, digging his claws into the ground to stop himself before rising to his feet, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

Gregory didn't move. With a sigh of relief, Cain started forward, reaching into his pocket for the special handcuffs he'd grabbed out of his son's hand as he strode past his son on his way out of the mansion.

A low hiss, a singsong wail rose from the fallen youkai. His aura shifted, the wind taking an unnatural turn, swirling around his body as he slowly pushed himself to his knees, as his pulse fluctuated in his aura. Stopping short, Cain's eyes widened as realization hit him. The fool was going to transform, wasn't he, and if he did that . . .

Cain didn't think; he simply reacted. Lifting his hand, stretching out his fingers, gathering the energy of the very forces of nature, the ball of light that gathered in his palm flashed through the air, engulfed the panther-youkai in a hazy flash. His scream pierced the afternoon, underlined by the rumble of thunder somewhere in the distance as Cain stood, slowly lowering his arm, unblinking, unyielding as Alastair Gregory's body exploded, disintegrated, in a fissure of light and a rain of dust.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final_** **_Thought_** **_from_** **_Isabelle_** :  
>  _… Did he just say …?_


	69. Aftermath

Griffin grunted and rolled his eyes as Isabelle rather brusquely seized his wrist and forced his hand into a wooden bowl of warm water. He opened his mouth to tell her that her attention was completely unnecessary but snapped his mouth closed when she narrowed her eyes on him in silent warning. He sighed instead and tried not to grimace since it seemed like every muscle in his body was set to protest his uncharacteristic overexertion.

Satisfied that he would keep his hand in the bowl, she let out a deep breath and shuffled over to the window, arms crossed over her chest as she gnawed on her lower lip. Her anxiety was thick, strong, and Griffin had to dig the claws on his free hand into the arm of the chair to keep from stomping over there to distract her by making her yell at him, if nothing else.

“He’s too sick to fight,” she murmured, more to herself than to Griffin. Sucking in a sharp breath, she suddenly grasped the windowsill that creaked under the pressure she was applying. “Damn it,” she hissed as the spike in her youki diminished slightly.

Pulling his hand out of the water with a shake of his head, Griffin started to rise as Isabelle whipped around to glower at him. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

Griffin shot her a cursory glance and stubbornly shook his head. “What do you think?” he replied evenly.

“Not on your life, Griffin Marin,” she declared, stomping over to glare up at him.

“Move it, woman,” he growled.

“I don’t think so.”

Something in the expression on her face, the absolute stubbornness that he hadn’t seen in her before, stopped him, and while he knew damn well that she couldn’t actually restrain him physically, something in her demeanor could and did. Scowl darkening since she refused to let him pass without incident, Griffin snorted loudly but sank back into the recliner again.

It was _his_ fight, damn it, and it irritated him beyond all reason that her cousin had interfered, never mind that the cub had stepped in just in time to keep Gregory from harming Isabelle. Griffin could fight, even if the lot of them didn’t want to admit as much. He wasn’t completely useless, after all . . .

‘ _Knock it off, Griffin, and be thankful that nothing happened to her; can’t you?_ ’

Gritting his teeth since ‘thankful’ didn’t even begin to describe the turmoil of emotion that he was having trouble dealing with, Griffin made a face as Isabelle tugged on his wrist, depositing his hand into the water bowl again.

To be honest, he’d never been quite so frightened in his life. After realizing that she wasn’t at the hospital after all, he’d made it home in time to find that bastard herding her to his car, and, well, he’d snapped—or rather, something inside him had snapped. The smell of her blood, the fear that she’d been trying to desperately to hide . . . If he had been just a little later . . .

‘ _Stop beating yourself up over that. You did get here in time, and that’s enough._ ’

‘ _Enough_ . . .’

No, it wasn’t enough; not when Griffin knew damn well that the reason that the youkai was able to find his house and Isabelle was because he’d gotten a good whiff of Griffin’s scent in the office. That was the only way he could have tracked her down. The familiar feeling of just not being quite good enough resurfaced with a vengeance, and that was more than impetus enough to force him out of his chair again.

“If you try to go outside again, I swear on all that’s holy, I’ll bash you over the head with that lamp to knock you out,” Isabelle warned.

Blinking at her threat, coupled by the idea that she really sounded like she meant it, Griffin snorted loudly and altered his direction, ignoring the throbbing ache that had settled into his chest where Gregory had directed his energy spear attack, and lumbered toward the window. The cub was holding his own, Griffin noted, not that he’d really expected any less. He’d damn well better be half-decent, given the arrogance that he exuded, and unlike Isabelle, who thought with her heart and emotions rather than with her head, Griffin also figured that the hanyou was just too stubborn to die without a fight, anyway. “He’s fine,” Griffin muttered in an effort to alleviate some of the tension that enveloped her.

“Bakas, the lot of you,” she grumbled, rubbing her forearms without taking her eyes off the display in the front yard.

“Let me see your face.”

She waved him off with a flutter of her hand. Griffin rolled his eyes and grabbed her arm, tugging her around despite her resistance and tilting her chin so he could get a better look at the scratch that traversed her cheek. “ _Bastard_ ,” he muttered under his breath, gently, clumsily, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the clean incision. It wasn’t deep, not that it mattered. A surge of rage rose inside him, so deep, so powerful, so consuming, that he couldn’t help the menacing growl that escaped him. Isabelle opened her mouth to say something but gasped and pulled away when an eruption of energy shot straight into the air—as her cousin’s body was held suspended ten feet off the ground by the column of light—as the sound of his scream permeated the closed window.

She started to dart away. Griffin caught her arm. “What the hell do you think you can do?” he demanded in a harsher tone than he’d intended.

“I-I could distract him! I could—”

“No!” Griffin snarled, dragging her roughly against his chest. She fought against him, gave up a token resistance. In the end, though, she uttered a strangled cry, her hands gripping onto his sleeves tightly.

Gritting his teeth, he turned enough that she couldn’t see outside without some effort if she tried. The cub was down on his hands and knees while Alastair Gregory crawled out of the earth like some macabre nightmare.

Emotions warred inside him. Common sense told him that Gunnar was definitely in trouble, and as much as he wanted to help him, he wasn’t entirely certain how much he had left, himself. Isabelle wasn’t crying, but her fear was choking him, and fighting against the overwhelming need to comfort her . . . it wasn’t a simple thing.

The hanyou tried to push himself to his feet. From his vantage point, Griffin saw him vomit. Wincing as the conflict within him spiraled higher, he forced himself to step back, to let go of Isabelle. “Stay in the hou—” he started to say only to be cut short when a fissure of light cut across the yard, smacking into Alastair’s chest and bearing the youkai back.

“Zelig,” he whispered as the tai-youkai stepped up beside Gunnar.

Isabelle’s breath whooshed out of her in a rush of relief, the unerring belief that her grandfather could fix anything, he supposed. “Grandpa,” she squeaked in a broken whisper as Cain helped Gunnar to his feet. The two seemed to be having some sort of exchange, and Griffin wasn’t at all surprised to see the young hanyou turn and stumble toward the house.

Isabelle saw it, too, and with a harsh cry, she broke away from Griffin’s side to unlock the door.

“I’m . . . I’m fine, damn it,” the hanyou muttered as Isabelle dragged him into the living room a minute later.

“You’re not fine, baka!” she countered. “Lie down and let me look at you.”

The hanyou shot Isabelle a cold look that she summarily ignored but did as he was told, veering over and all but dropping straight onto the sofa. Ashen, pale, his breathing was shallow and labored, and Griffin had to wonder what kind of mock-bravado had goaded the youngster into stepping foot outside, in the first place.

“ _You!_ ” she suddenly blurted, rounding on her heel to glower at Griffin. “You need to rest, too! Sit back down, put your hand in that bowl, and don’t you dare move again unless I tell you to!”

Griffin’s eyes flared, and for the briefest of moments, he actually considered arguing with her. Then he snapped his mouth closed, his cheeks darkening to a ruddy hue as he stomped over to his recliner once more and shot her a glare as he sank back down again.

Lifting her eyebrows when he didn’t stick his hand into the water right away, Isabelle looked like she was considering mayhem, and with a loud snort designed to let her know exactly what he thought of her bullying, he let his hand drop into the fluid with a loud ‘splash’.

“You men are really stupid, did you know that?” she grumbled, apparently satisfied that Griffin would stay where she’d told him to as she turned her attention back to her cousin once more. Ripping open a package of antiseptic wipes, she rubbed the raw patch on his cheek where he’d fallen. Gunnar sucked in a harsh breath and tried to jerk away from her. She reacted in kind, grasping his chin and wiping at the wound as though he were little more than a cub who’d gotten caught fighting.

“Of all the foolish, stupid, ignorant things to do! You knew I called Bastian, but no, you just had to be the hero, didn’t you?” she went on.

“Bastian’s in Bevelle, if you’ll recall,” Gunnar retorted dryly, apparently deciding that fighting Isabelle wasn’t worth the trouble.

“And what would you have done if Grandpa hadn’t gotten here when he did?” she huffed.

Gunnar sighed and tried to lean away when Isabelle ripped open a package of gauze patches. “I would have gotten up and fought him.”

“Just like I said,” she shot back, “ _stupid_. . . now where else are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, Izzy,” Gunnar maintained, reaching up to tug the makeshift bandage off his cheek but stopping when she planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. He made a show of rolling his eyes but let his hand drop away.

Griffin almost felt sorry for the cub—almost. Satisfied that Gunnar was going to heed her words, though, she turned back to face Griffin once more, and the very small trace bit of amusement that he’d felt seconds before gave way to a knot of trepidation as she stomped over to him again. “Take your shirt off,” she ordered in a no-nonsense tone of voice.

“Not on your life,” he ground out.

“I need to see where you were hit,” she explained in a voice that Griffin likened to a kindergarten teacher scolding a child for eating paste. “Take it off.”

“No.”

She rolled her eyes and scowled at him. “Now, or I swear, I’ll—”

“I won’t, and you can’t make me,” he interjected.

‘ _Wonderful . . . Now you sound like the paste-eater_ ,’ his youkai intoned.

‘ _Shut. Up_.’

“Don’t tell me it doesn’t hurt, because I know damn well that it does,” she countered. “Besides . . . those energy attacks can do more harm under the skin than they do to the skin, itself.”

“Then if I keel over, dead, then I guess you’ll know why because there’s no way in hell that I’m taking _anything_ off, so you can just forget it, Jezebel,” he shot back.

Her retort was cut short, though, when the slow creak of approaching footsteps drew her attention, instead. Whipping around in time to see her grandfather step into the room, she uttered a terse little cry and ran to his side, her eyes scanning over him in a worried sort of way. “Grandpa, are you—?”

The tai-youkai forced a wan smile entirely for Isabelle’s benefit. “Don’t worry,” he said with a sigh. “Gregory’s dead.”

She looked a little dazed by the news, but she nodded slowly. “Stay here,” she murmured, turning toward the kitchen. “You need to clean up . . . Grandma will worry if you go home like that . . .”

Cain watched her go with a soft sigh. “You all right?” he asked Gunnar.

Gunnar nodded but didn’t open his eyes.

“And you?” he asked, his gaze shifting to Griffin.

Griffin couldn’t help the color that flooded his features as he shifted under the tai-youkai’s scrutiny. No, it wasn’t the tai-youkai that made him feel uncomfortable. It was facing Isabelle’s grandfather combined with the idea that he hadn’t really been able to protect her, at all . . . “Fine,” he muttered, his gaze dropping away as he glowered at the floor.

“How did he find you?” Cain pressed.

Griffin cleared his throat. “He came to the university,” he admitted quietly. “Asked me to . . . to translate something, but I . . .” Grimacing at his perceived carelessness, Griffin shrugged and shook his head. “I should have known,” he forced himself to say. “I should have—”

“You did enough,” Cain cut in though not unkindly. “Thank you.”

He grunted but didn’t get a chance to argue with him as Isabelle hurried back into the room again. Carefully turning her grandfather’s head, she wiped his face with a clean, damp cloth. To Griffin’s surprise, Cain simply stood there, allowing her to do what she wanted. “I’ll put some ointment on that burn,” she murmured, gingerly wiping the angry red welt on Cain’s cheek. “Oh, Grandpa . . .”

Cain smiled wanly though there wasn’t a doubt in Griffin’s mind that the expression was genuine, and it just left him wondering exactly how he could possibly remain so calm after the afternoon’s unceremonious events. “It’s not that stuff that reeks, is it?”

‘ _Maybe it’s because he knows_ ,’ Griffin’s youkai whispered in his head.

‘ _Knows what?_ ’

‘ _He knows . . . he knows what’s important: his family and those he holds dear . . . and maybe that’s why he can look so calm even after he’s been forced to take a life_ . . .’

That thought gave him pause, and he swallowed hard. No, he supposed he’d never considered that, had he? Instead of beating himself up because he hadn’t been able to keep Isabelle from being injured or because he hadn’t been there in time to protect his nephew from having to fight, Zelig saw the other side, didn’t he? That his granddaughter was safe, and that Gunnar was, too . . .

Was it really that simple? Could it really be as easy as that, to change the way he thought about things: things that he’d always considered his failures . . .

“You look like you could use some rest, Isabelle,” Cain’s soft voice broke through Griffin’s reverie. Touching Isabelle’s cheek, he smiled once more and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “I’ll call you in a few days to get more details.”

She nodded in silence, hanging onto her grandfather’s hand for a moment before she finally let go.

Cain’s gaze lingered on her face for a moment before flicking over to Griffin then back to Isabelle once more. “Dr. Marin, I’d appreciate it if you’d make sure that she rests up some.”

Griffin grunted. “She . . . she never listens to me.”

Cain chuckled and shrugged as he started to turn away, and for just a moment, Griffin saw the trace hint of weariness in the man’s gaze though he doubted that Isabelle had seen it. “Isabelle,” Cain cautioned without looking back, “maybe you should let him win once in a while, don’t you think?”

She smiled just a little. “Okay, Grandpa.”

Cain lifted a hand to wave over his shoulder, slipping out of the living room as quietly as he had come in.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle stood without moving for several moments, long after she’d heard the front door click softly in her grandfather’s wake. A wave of weariness washed over her, and she sighed as she shook herself and turned to face Griffin.

Frowning at the floor in such a thoughtful way, he seemed completely absorbed in whatever he was contemplating, and she bit her lip, wondering if he were blaming himself for the whole altercation.

“Let me see your paw, Pooh Bear,” she remarked, closing the distance between them in a couple long strides.

That comment drew a snort from him—she wasn’t surprised. In fact, she’d banked on it. Cheeks reddening as he snapped his mouth closed, he pulled his hand out of the water and jammed it under her nose.

“Nothing’s broken,” she said at length as she methodically moved each of his fingers. The swelling had gone down a little, and while his knuckles were still red and raw and crisscrossed with a configuration of small scrapes from the impact with the concrete driveway, the wounds were starting to close up, much to her relief.

“I told you that already,” he reminded her, pulling his hand away and hunching forward as his scowl darkened. “Why don’t you go fuss over him for a while?”

She glanced at Gunnar then shrugged. “He’s asleep,” she replied.

“He’s not asleep. He’s trying to avoid you; that’s all.”

“Nope . . .” Gunnar slurred groggily without opening his eyes. “Definitely . . . asleep . . .”

“There, see?” she quipped. “Now let me look at your chest.”

He glared at her, and she had the distinct feeling that he was cursing her one-track mind. Still, she’d feel better if she saw his chest since the memory of the hit was entirely too fresh in her head. “I’m fine, damn it,” he insisted, reaching out to grab her hand as he gave her a quick yank. Catching her off-guard, she winced as she tumbled into his lap, her hand bracing her weight against the center of his chest. “Oof!” he grunted, face mottling in darker blotches of red though whether it was because she’d inadvertently hurt him or because she was in his lap, she wasn’t certain.

Still, he didn’t shove her off. In fact, he reached over the arm of the chair to dip his fingertips into the water again, only this time, he used the moisture to dab at the cut on her cheek. Isabelle blinked, staring at him as he scowled slightly in complete concentration. His fingers were clumsy, and yet the gesture was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

And suddenly the memories came flooding back—the memories that she’d been trying her hardest not to think about as she’d ranted and raved and tended his injuries. Why was it easier to do that when she was preoccupied with playing doctor? The consuming fear that had risen to choke her as she’d watched Griffin with his claws wrapped around the youkai’s neck . . . his body being thrown back by the impact of Alastair Gregory’s energy spears . . . Her emotions rose and fell, twisting into themselves until she felt like screaming, and vaguely, strangely, she felt his arms slowly lock around her.

“Y-You’re leaking again,” he complained gruffly.

Isabelle sniffled and burrowed closer against his shoulder. She hadn’t realized that she was sobbing, and while part of her couldn’t help but feel bad for subjecting Griffin to such a deplorable display, she couldn’t help but feel grateful for the comfort that he offered her, even if he wasn’t that good at it. He was definitely good enough . . .

“S-S-Sor-r-ry,” she stammered, her word punctuated by very loud hiccups.

He heaved a loud sigh but his arms tightened just a little. “Really got to look into flood insurance,” he muttered.

She half-choked, half-laughed, and sounded entirely pathetic in the process. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” she pressed.

“I’m . . .” Cutting himself off with another sigh, Griffin shook his head. “What’re a few more scars?”

Squeezing her eyes closed, she couldn’t help herself when she clenched a fistful of his shirt. The fear that had seized her slowly subsided, and with a deep, stuttering breath, she pushed herself up and forced a small smile. “It’s just that when I saw you, and he . . .”

Trailing off as the kernel of a thought took root in her mind, Isabelle shook her head.

“— _is she . . . to you . . .?_ ”

 _The fierce look on Griffin’s face as he uttered a low growl and smacked the youkai against the wall for good measure . . . “She’s my_ —”

“ _She’s my_ —”

Isabelle blinked and slowly lifted her questioning gaze to meet Griffin’s far more suspicious one.

“She’s my—”

“. . . Mate,” Isabelle whispered, her eyes flaring wide.

“What are you thinking?” he asked a little too cautiously.

“You said it,” she breathed, her expression filling with a wondrous sense of awe. “You . . . You did . . .”

“What did I . . . say?” he countered, his sense of foreboding echoed on his expression and growing more and more suspect with every passing moment.

“You’re my mate,” she stated once more. “You said it! You . . . You did!”

Abject alarm registered on his features, and he tried to shove her off his lap as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I-I didn’t!” he blustered, his face rapidly approaching the boiling point. “Y-you misunderstood! I n-n-never—”

“You did!” she argued, kissing him quickly. “You did . . . You did . . . You did!”

“I . . . did . . . not,” he argued between rapid-fire kisses.

Caught between a laugh and a happy sort of sob, Isabelle stood up and grabbed his hands. “Come on, Griffin Marin,” she demanded with a tug.

“W-Where—? What—? Huh?”

The moment he was on his feet, she started to drag him toward the hallway. “You said it,” she reiterated with a shake of her head.

“W-Wait! Stop it, woman!” he blustered, putting up a token resistance that Isabelle summarily ignored.

Gunnar heaved a heavy sigh and popped an eye open as he, too, slowly pushed himself to his feet. True, he felt like absolute hell, and all he really wanted to do was rest, but there was no way on earth that he was going to stay in this house while Isabelle claimed her mate . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from Gunnar_** :  
> … _Disgusting_ …


	70. Hope

“W-W-Wait! Uh, can w-we talk about this?”

“No,” Isabelle stated flatly, the light of stubborn resolve burning bright in her gaze as she peered over her shoulder at him, but continued to drag him down the hallway toward the bedroom.

He tugged on his arm but couldn’t shake her off. Cheeks burning as his brain refused to process anything that was happening, Griffin tried to come up with something— _anything_ —to put off what he knew was inevitable. “This isn’t—I don’t—we can’t—”

“It is, you don’t have to, and we certainly can,” she argued. “You said it, didn’t you? I’m your mate—that’s what you said. _You_ said it, Griffin Marin, and I’m not giving you a chance to change your mind.”

“I-It’s still daylight outside!” he pointed out as she pulled him into the bedroom and kicked the door closed.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed, letting go of his hand and neatly stepping in front of the door to block his only means of escape. “Now either get your clothes off, or I won’t be responsible if I rip them.”

Caught between complete embarrassment and reluctant belligerence, Griffin shook his head stubbornly and grunted as he tried to fight the heated blush that suffused his skin at the implication of her words. She was stalking toward him, her eyes blazing with determination that both scared and thrilled him at the same time. He couldn’t move, couldn’t understand the logical sound of his own thoughts telling him that she was going to get him if he didn’t do something fast. The color of her eyes seemed to shift and flow like liquid gold, and Griffin . . .

He knew in that instant that he was a goner, or maybe . . .

Or maybe she really could save him . . .

“I-Isabelle,” he murmured, his voice little more than a breath: a hiss or a sigh or something in between. She closed the distance with a few strides, her body pressing against his as she rose on the balls of her feet, her hands slipping around his neck, her fingers sinking into his hair. Her mouth was sweet, gentle yet powerful—as much of a paradox as she’d ever been, and yet for once, just for once, he didn’t stop to question it or doubt himself. The flow of her youki surrounded him, urging him with a delicate grace, with an understood sense of hope and beauty even as she devastated his senses with little more than a soft sigh, a whisper of an exhalation as she acquiesced to him.

His arms wrapped around her, holding her close—so close that she gasped, and whether she could sense his emotions or was simply seeking a proximity that he couldn’t refute didn’t matter. She touched his cheek, ran her fingertips over the jagged scarring as she leaned away, her smile radiant and tremulous, quivering on her lips like rain as her eyes brightened, as the pungent tang of the salt in her tears made him frown. He’d never understand her, would he? Never would be able to reconcile himself to the understanding that she really had chosen to be with the likes of him . . . and yet it was simple, wasn’t it? Reaching out with trembling hands, he clumsily smoothed her hair off her face as her lips parted slightly; as the dew of her breathing condensed on the heels of his hands. For a moment, she looked as though she wanted to say something, but the expression faded, only to be replaced with a tender little smile as a solitary tear slipped down her cheek.

But he was the one who leaned down, who covered her lips with his own. Cradling her face as though he were afraid that she would break, he shivered like a frightened child, asked her to be his in the only way he knew, and she . . .

Her acceptance was as easy as the fluctuation of her heartbeat. She’d known, and she’d understood everything he’d never been able to say; knew everything about him. Her tongue slipped out to flick against his lips, and with a ragged groan, he felt his mouth slacken as a shocking desire slammed through him, obliterating cognizant thought as the need to touch her—a primitive thing—took over. Whispers in his head couldn’t be discerned, the voice of his youkai blood merging with the other nonsensical sounds that made no sense. A tug on the buttons of his shirt seemed so very far away. Even the thickening of her evolving scent couldn’t seem to permeate the foggy haze that enveloped him . . .

He could hear the gentle rustle that was more of a movement than an actual sound as she pushed his shirt off. She tugged at the bottom of his t-shirt, and he caught her wrists with a low rumble, tugging her arms up and placing them on his shoulders, willing her to wrap them around his neck. She complied with a content little sigh as Griffin’s hands fell to her hips, drawing her close, grasping her firmly until a smothered cry cut through his oblivion. He . . . he’d hurt her . . .?

“Isa . . . belle . . .?” he rasped out, swallowing hard as a vindictive anger shot through him.

She blinked quickly and smiled though he could tell it was more for his benefit than for hers. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her voice tinged with a huskiness that he couldn’t credit. She started to press close to him again, but he pulled back as a slow fragment of memory invaded his overwrought emotions. The panther-youkai with his filthy hands on her, his claws digging into the soft flesh of her hip, her breast . . .

“Damn it!” Griffin blurted, shoving Isabelle’s hands away as he pinned her with a chagrined sort of look. The familiarity of self-loathing seeped over him as she shook his head. She looked confused, almost panicked, for a moment, but he wasn’t going to be sidetracked. Shooting her another scowl, he reached for the bottom of her sweater and pulled it over her head, grimacing at the sharper scent of her blood, and while it had taken on the staler, less noticeable tinge—a smell that could easily blend into other baser scents—he couldn’t help the low growl that slipped out at the sight of the rusty-looking stains that had ruined the pristine white lace of her bra.

His fingers were shaking as he slipped her skirt off, ignoring the crimson stains marring the light fabric, letting it pool around her feet in a slapdash heap.

He picked her up with infinite care and moved to the bed where he sank down and settled her on his lap, casting her a warning look should she decide that he was being ridiculous. He could tell that she thought he was worried over nothing, and he ignored the hint of amusement that sparkled in her eyes as he pulled her against his shoulder so that he could see over her back to unfasten the bra.

She couldn’t contain her sharp hiss of breath when he tugged the garment free. The dried blood had stuck to the wounds, and the movement had reopened them just a little. With a grimace, Griffin pushed her back far enough to allow him to look, and he winced as a vivid blush shot to the fore. ‘ _Stop that!_ ’ he told himself brusquely. ‘ _She . . . she’s injured, and I_ . . .’

‘ _Mate . . . hurt_ . . .’

He might have frowned at the almost visceral tone of his youkai voice if he weren’t so preoccupied. The wounds weren’t so severe that he needed to worry, and yet the idea that Alastair Gregory had hurt her in any way wrung an anger so intense from him that he had to grit his teeth together to keep from losing his temper entirely.

He didn’t stop to think about what he was doing as he leaned down and lapped at the injury, understanding only that he needed to do this, needed to soothe her. The taste of her blood was a hurtful thing, wrenching a low moan from him. She gasped softly, her arms wrapping around him as though to hold him to her, as though she couldn’t bear to let go.

Still it took him a minute to comprehend that it wasn’t pain that was making her draw such shallow, stunted breaths as she squirmed on his lap. As though she needed to be closer to him, she uttered a strangled sort of sound, pressing her body nearer.

‘ _She . . . Wh . . . She . . .?_ ’ he stammered as he pulled back to scowl in concentration. He snorted indelicately and shook his head, twisting around to lay her on the bed. “Y-you behave,” he grumbled, studiously trying to avoid looking at her despite the perverse draw on his youki to inspect the other wounds—the ones on her hip. After a minute of deliberation, he sighed. “L-Let me see your . . . your hip.”

He heard the bed creak as she shifted, and he swallowed hard, trying not to think about the idea that she was removing her panties. When he looked, though, he couldn’t see past the smear of blood dried on her hip, and before he could stop it, a vicious growl surged out of him. Crumpling forward, he uttered a broken sort of sound, squeezing his eyes closed against the unrelenting guilt that he hadn’t been there to protect her, in the first place. Licking away the lingering reminders of the violence she’d had to endure, he did the only thing he knew to do . . .

It was worse with his eyes closed.

Everything about her seemed to speak to him, to call to him in whispers; in the delicate grasp of her youki on his. Her ever changing scent undulated, wrapping him in a strange sense of bemusement even as the bittersweet tint of her blood dissipated from his lips. It began as a slow comprehension, a vague sort of draw that he couldn’t completely appreciate. The earthy scent, the absolute heat that lured him seemed to resonate in the air like the invisible strings of a kite in the summertime sky. Everything and nothing or maybe it was simply the understood simplicity: the reaction of a heart that had lain dormant for far too long, and yet . . .

Yet there was something about her—something he’d often sensed but had never fully appreciated. He’d known as certainly as he knew himself . . . and maybe she really could set him free.

Her scent thickened in the air like a physical thing—an entity that he could reach out and touch. She uttered a low moan that drew a grimace from him. Drawn by the lure of the intoxicating scent that surged around him, he couldn’t think, couldn’t comprehend anything other than the base need to touch her, to feel her, to taste her.

Without opening his eyes, he dragged his lips over the rise of her hip, down the hollow of her skin. Flesh breaking out in a riot of goosebumps, she shivered under his touch, quivering in absolute surrender as she allowed him the time to do whatever he wanted. Nothing made sense to him. In the haze that had engulfed his mind, the only thing that he knew was the visceral need to touch her, to keep touching her. As though he believed that he could understand exactly what it was that she could feel, he couldn’t resist the lure of her body on his; couldn’t fight against the reality that was both beautiful and somehow more frightening than anything he’d ever known in his life.

‘ _My . . . mate . . .?_ ’

The thought gave him courage, pulled him in closer. His eyes flashed open when he realized that the erratic beat of her heart was in perfect harmony with his. She was staring at him, leaning up on her elbows, with such a sweet smile on her face that he had to blink and look away. Skin delicately flushed, her lips parted slightly, her breathing raspy and a little harsh despite the happiness in her expression . . . why did he feel like he didn’t have the right to touch her, to hold her?

He started to push himself up on his hands, his mind tumbling over itself as he struggled to make sense of her, of him, of _them_.

She rolled onto her knees and reached out to stop his retreat. Her smile brightened as she slipped her arms around his neck, her lips warm, welcome as she pressed them against his. Her breasts strained against him, her body scorching him through the paltry fabric of his t-shirt, and he couldn’t do anything but wrap his arms around her, allowing her to surge around him like the rising tide.

A beautiful creature, as wild and wanton as a summer storm, and yet there was an underlying gentleness in everything she did. She nibbled on his lip until he moaned, his arms tightening around her as though he were afraid that she’d dissolve right before his eyes if he didn’t hold onto her.

‘ _I . . . love you_ . . .’

He started to pull back, wanted to look at her. Her grip tightened on him, a surge of instant panic that he was trying to leave her, yet that wasn’t it, at all. No, he needed to know . . . but she hadn’t said it out loud, had she? He knew that . . . too intent on kissing him, she hadn’t uttered a word, and still he’d heard her as plainly as he would have if she had spoken.

‘ _I . . . I . . . love . . . you, too_ . . .’

Griffin would never know if the words in his heart had been heard, but maybe they had. Her hands slipped down his shoulders, down his chest, her claws teasing him through his t-shirt.

Dragging his mouth away from hers as his head fell back, as a ragged groan was wrenched from him when she slipped her hands up between the thin fabric and his bare skin. A wash of fire consumed him, licked around the edges of his very being as he struggled for a semblance of the reason that was fast slipping away. Too much sensation, too much emotion, and it was all wrapped up in her. She suckled the roughened flesh of his throat, her lips stripping away the very last of his defenses, leaving him bare, leaving him reeling—leaving him breathless . . .

And she wasn’t finished. Leaning away just long enough to drag the t-shirt over his head, she trailed kisses down his neck, along his collarbone, her hands kneading his chest, his shoulders, deliberately taking her time as she touched him to her heart’s content. He was powerless to stop her, his eyebrows drawing together in a marked frown as fought for control of his rioting senses.

It didn’t work. The tug on his pants felt oddly far away, but the shocking burn of her hands on him cut through his stupor with a vengeance. Stroking him with long, slow motions, she uttered a sound—almost a purr—from low in her throat. A gentle squeeze that wrung a growl from the depths of him . . . a soothing yet entirely demanding pressure as she pushed his skin down his shaft . . . He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from coming entirely undone. With another guttural growl, he pushed her back as he kicked his pants off impatiently, falling on her, his lips seeking out hers as she lifted her body to meet him.

The lingering memory of the moments that they’d stolen once before tinged the reaches of his mind. Whether it was a blessing or a curse wasn’t clear, but those same thoughts were enough. It was different, though, wasn’t it? The pervasive feeling of guilt was conspicuously absent this time. All that remained was the absolute knowledge that this . . . it was right, and Isabelle . . .

Bracing her feet on the mattress, she lifted her pelvis against his, her motions clear, her desires absolutely unquestionable. The searing burn of the balmy heat that radiated from her to him was an invitation—a complete acceptance—that he couldn’t ignore. She welcomed his body with her own as he shivered, shuddered, trembled.

Driven by a primitive ache, he ground his hips against hers. Her answer was a sharp gasp as she arched her back, her breasts rubbing against his chest as she undulated, as she created a rhythm that he matched. Gathering her close, he squeezed his eyes closed, trying to hold onto the moment even as he lost the last of his control.

The slick friction was too much, goading him until he was reacting entirely on instinct. Isabelle was relentless, rising like a phoenix from the flames time after time. As though her passion was fueled by his, she keened quietly, her breath coming in smothered gasps. Meeting his cadence with her body, she rocked against him, drew him in deeper and deeper with every stroke. A fine sheen of sweat broke over his skin. He couldn’t contain the fevered sensation that centered on the tightening grip she had on him. The tingling that rose deep within him was almost too much to bear. An ache so deep, so encompassing, that it bordered on painful swelled inside him, grew with a frightening tenacity.

Isabelle cried out, his name spilling from her lips as her body convulsed around him. Her arms tightened, and she clung to him, half-panting, half-sobbing—a poignant menagerie of sound and smell and sensation. Her will broke his, the painful ache of want and need converging, burgeoning into a pleasure so intense that it was almost too much for him to endure.

But it kept rising, looming larger and larger as it threatened to engulf him. Isabelle goaded him faster, her body demanding as it gave, lifting to meet his movements with a reckless abandon that he understood. Every beat of his heart echoed hers, his body mirrored in her motions as the sensation swelled and grew. The last lingering doubt disbursed; the inebriating realization that she—Isabelle—was his mate—his true mate—his only mate . . . and if he’d had to wait over six hundred years to find her all over again, then he gladly would . . .

And it was the beauty of that last shimmering moment that would remain in his memory forever: the last instant that defined the difference between ‘before’ and ‘after’ . . . and the salvation that Isabelle had given to him . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle closed her eyes as she snuggled against Griffin’s shoulder, unable to keep the silly smile off her face as she reveled in the knowledge that the stubborn man really was and forever would be hers. He hadn’t said a thing since he’d rolled over and pulled her close against his side, and while his breathing was still a bit labored, his heartbeat was starting to return to a normal cadence.

“You’re stuck with me, you know,” she remarked lightly, sparing a moment to kiss his chest as she idly traced a jagged scar that diagonally traversed his skin.

He grunted something unintelligible and yanked the sheet up over himself, and she didn’t have to look to know that he was probably blushing, too.

“I promise you’ll be happy that you are, though,” she went on, wiggling her hand free to shove the sheet away.

He snorted and held onto the fabric. “Depends on your definition of ‘happy’, Jezebel,” he countered mildly seconds before she felt the warmth of his lips pressing against her forehead.

She laughed softly, rolling to the side so she could push herself up on her elbows. “I’m going to shower you with love and affection and lots and lots of—”

“Don’t finish that,” he cut in, his face blossoming in embarrassed color.

“Yes, well, speaking of that . . . You up for another round, Dr. Griffin?” she teased.

“Control yourself, woman,” he growled with an exasperated shake of his head. “I knew this was a mistake . . .”

She heaved a petulant sigh but couldn’t help the smile that widened, either. If he ever figured out exactly how much she enjoyed teasing him, she supposed that she’d be in a world of trouble. “As long as you stop making eyes at all the girls you see on the street,” she went on lightly, figuring that she’d get a decent response from him for her efforts.

Griffin shot her a strange sort of glance, almost as if he felt guilty for something. Isabelle didn’t get a chance to consider it, though, because he snatched up the sheet and hastily rolled out of bed.

She laughed—she couldn’t help it—since he was so adamant that he remain covered that he’d inadvertently left her completely bare. She didn’t mind, and she kicked up her feet, crossing her ankles, and propped her cheek on her hand as she watched him shuffle across the room to the dresser.

“You can’t take it back, you realize,” she drawled lazily.

He sighed, sparing a moment to frown back at her before resuming his task of rummaging through his drawers in his quest to find clothes. “It . . . that’s not it,” he muttered, bending over to yank a pair of underpants on without dislodging the sheet that covered his shoulders.

“If you can actually manage to get dressed without dropping that sheet, I’ll be really impressed,” she quipped.

“J-Jezebel,” he snorted.

“Why don’t you come back to bed and cuddle with me?” she suggested.

“N-No,” he stammered as he leaned against the dresser to pull on a pair of old and faded but meticulously clean jeans. When he got to the t-shirt, however, he couldn’t keep the sheet on, and with a frustrated growl, he let it drop and jerked the shirt over his head as quickly as he possibly could.

She frowned at the configuration of scars that marred his skin: jagged, angry reminders of a violent past and of everything that he’d ever lost. The pain he’d felt over the centuries since his childhood had so abruptly ended had always been something that she understood, and yet the visual reminders . . . She winced. ‘ _Never again_ ,’ she told herself with a shake of her head. Never again would he have to deal with that kind of loss, that kind of pain. She’d make sure of it, wouldn’t she? She’d make sure that nothing like that ever, ever happened to him again.

“W . . . We have to . . . talk,” he said in the companionable silence that had fallen. Pausing for a moment to drape his hands on his hips as he scowled at the dresser, he shook his head suddenly and stooped over to swipe up the discarded sheet.

“Talk later, big guy,” she replied, brushing the more depressing thoughts aside. “I don’t think I’m done claiming my mate yet . . .”

He whipped around to pin her with a warning frown but stopped short, cheeks burgeoning in a reddened hue when he spotted her lying in the middle of the bed. She almost laughed when he swallowed hard, and with a muffled curse, he stomped over, shaking out the sheet that he dropped over her prone body. “Y-You be good,” he growled, shaking his head and letting his hair fall into his eyes in the process.

“I’m _trying_ to be good,” she countered with a giggle. “You’re not making it easy, you know.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” he retorted with an indelicate snort. “Now listen, will you?”

“I’m listening; I’m listening,” she insisted, waving a hand in a delicate flutter as she let her gaze wander over him.

He blushed a little darker but didn’t comment as he started pacing the floor beside the bed. “It’s just . . . you didn’t . . . didn’t let me talk earlier . . .” he began with a determined sort of glower.

“That’s because your idea of talking is never conducive to the stuff I had in mind.”

That earned her another loud snort as he kept moving back and forth beside her. “Are you listening to me?”

She couldn’t help the little laugh that escaped her as she watched the surly bear. “Of course I am,” she replied in a tone that stated quite plainly that she was doing nothing of the sort.

“I don’t even know why I bother,” he complained.

“You want to know what I’m thinking?”

He shot her a fulminating glare but shook his head. “No. I want you to listen.”

“I’d listen better if you’d come over here and lie down with me again.”

“You wouldn’t,” he insisted. “I’m not falling for your trickery.”

“Trickery?” she echoed with another round of giggles. “I like that . . .”

“You would. Now shut your yap and _listen_ to me.”

She stretched out her arms under the pillows and let her forehead fall against the downy softness. “But you know what I’m doing in my head, don’t you?”

He stopped for a second before resuming his stride. “N-No, I don’t . . . and I don’t think I want to.”

Her laugh was breathy and warm like a caress. “I just pulled your shirt off,” she intoned.

His cheeks reddened just a little, and he snapped his mouth closed. “Don’t defile me,” he retorted.

“Now I’m reaching for your pants, Griffin . . .”

He halted mid-gait and swung around to face her, his expression like a gathering storm as he glowered furiously at her, planting his hands on his hips as he tried not to blush and failed. “Wh—You—Put my clothes back on!” he growled, the fierceness in his tone completely undermined by the violent color that washed into his features.

“But I like you much better when you’re naked, Griffin Marin.”

He sputtered a few moments before he was able to form coherent words, which simply added to Isabelle’s amusement. “Nothing but a wicked, wicked woman,” he muttered before shaking his head and heaving a defeated sort of sigh. “Listen to me, will you? Just listen . . .?”

Isabelle sighed, too, figuring that he wasn’t about to calm down until she agreed to hear him out. With that in mind, she rolled over and sat up, carefully drawing the sheet up, though the action was more for Griffin’s benefit than it was for herself. “Okay, I’ll listen,” she agreed.

Griffin didn’t seem reassured, and he stared at her for several seconds before he finally nodded once in terse agreement. “I . . . I meant to tell you sooner,” he admitted at length as he dug his hands into his pockets and shuffled over to the window. “But your family, and the testing, and . . .” Heaving another sigh, he slowly shook his head, and she didn’t miss the way his shoulders slumped just the tiniest bit—a show of defeat . . .? Isabelle waited for him to continue.

“One of the girls in my classes,” he finally continued in a much softer tone. “She . . . she, uh . . . I-I-I didn’t _want_ her to, but she . . . She kissed . . . me . . . and I didn’t stop her . . .”

Isabelle’s eyebrows rose at his admission. She could tell from the way he was acting that he fully expected her to be furious with him, and maybe if he were someone else, she might have been. Too bad she knew him too well to think that he’d instigated anything of the sort. No, if anything, she was irritated only that he had spent any length of time worrying over it . . .

To be completely honest, she couldn’t help but be a little amused, as well. Griffin looked like he wanted to tear something to shreds, and she’d better say something quickly before he gave in to the urge to do exactly that. “So . . . I take it you didn’t like it?”

“N-No!” he countered with a vehement growl. He swung around to face her, blinking when he caught sight of her smile. The self-disgust in his expression didn’t disappear completely, but he did seem to understand that she wasn’t upset with him. “No,” he said again in a much quieter, much more apologetic tone of voice. “But I . . . I didn’t . . . I should’ve stopped her . . .”

Isabelle scooted off the bed, careful to wrap the sheet around herself and tucking the end in between her breasts before she walked over to Griffin. “Do you have any idea how many girls wanted to kiss you when I was in school?” she asked, her tone light but her gaze serious. She caught his chin when he started to look away, forcing him to keep his eyes trained on hers.

“She wanted me to change her grade,” he muttered.

She laughed softly and rose on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “And you honestly think that’s the only reason she’d kiss you?”

He snorted but blushed and made a face. “What other reason is there?”

“Are you kidding me? The aloof, brooding ancient linguistics professor with the eyes that could melt hardened steel? Please, Griffin . . . every girl in your class wanted to fuck you . . . or do you honestly think that we enjoyed your lectures so much that we didn’t dare miss a class?”

“Uh—Y— _Jezebel!_ ” he breathed.

She laughed at his perceived outrage. “They can dream all they want,” she went on as she slipped her arms around his waist and leaned her head against his chest. “You’re mine, and those girls . . . well, I suppose they’ll just have to think about you at night and get a lot of practice in masturbation.”

Griffin groaned, and she could feel the change in his temperature as what she was sure was a quite livid flush broke over him. “I-I’m going to . . . going to go for a walk,” he muttered. “Why don’t you take a nap or something?”

She sighed but shrugged, reluctantly letting her arms drop before taking a step back. “Will you lay down with me when you get back?” she asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. She knew as well as anyone that Griffin’s body was probably protesting. She also knew that as tired as he had to be, lying down tended to be as difficult for him the actual exertion.

“We’ll see,” he replied in a completely noncommittal tone.

She nodded and smiled before kicking the sheet out of the way as she turned back toward the bed again. His hand shot out to stop her. “You could . . . come with me . . .” he mumbled. “Just don’t . . . don’t scare off the wildlife.”

“You . . . want me to come with you . . .?” she asked slowly, a bright smile surfacing on her features.

He cleared his throat, crossing his arms over his chest, and nodded. “Y-Yeah . . .” he finally said, the barest hint of a reluctant smile quirking the corners of his lips. “I, uh . . . yeah.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final Thought from_** _**Isabelle** :  
> Silly old bear!_


	71. Uninvited Guests

‘ _They’re dogs, right . . .? So if I were to toss a bone out the front door, you think they’d chase it . . .?_ ’

Griffin’s youkai voice snorted at that idea. ‘ _You’d do that to the tai-youkai?_ ’

He considered that then grunted inwardly. ‘ _Yeah, I think I would_ . . .’

He wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened, in the first place. When he’d gotten up this morning, he certainly hadn’t planned on spending the majority of his day entertaining the masses, as it were. Somehow, though, he’d honestly thought that maybe—just maybe—he’d be able to spend a quiet Saturday with his mate in the tranquil sanctity of his home.

He should have realized when the knock on the door around ten had announced the arrival of Mamoruzen Inutaisho that his bliss was to be short-lived. He had come to get the next injection, and the only good thing, as far as Griffin could tell, was that the hanyou was still, in fact, hanyou, even if said hanyou didn’t look particularly well.

Isabelle had just finished badgering Griffin into agreeing not to hide down in the basement when the next wave hit. He still wasn’t sure why, exactly, he’d bothered to answer the door . . . Sebastian Zelig had greeted Griffin warmly enough, moments before he’d caught sight of his rather ill-looking cousin and the teasing had commenced . . .

“ _Good God, Gunsie, you look like_ shi-i-it.”

“ _Go to hell, Bas-tard. I can still kick your sorry ass_.”

“ _Oh, yeah? You couldn’t even kick that panther’s ass, you know. Pathetic, if you ask me_ . . .”

“ _Good thing I didn’t then, isn’t it?_ ”

And then Cain Zelig, along with his son-in-law, Gavin, had arrived.

As far as Griffin was concerned, it had gone downhill from there. Cain had rather indelicately suggested that Isabelle leave for a while since they were going to discuss what he had bluntly called, “men stuff”.   That bothered him more than he’d like to consider, really. After all, if anyone were to try to get rid of Isabelle, it should be him, right?

His youkai grunted again. ‘ _Right_.’

“I thought you should know, Griffin, that, according to the intelligence we’ve gathered thus far, it seems that Alastair Gregory was acting on his own,” Cain said, drawing Griffin out of his reverie.

“And you’re sure?”

Cain sighed. “Reasonably . . . We’ll know positively when Ben gets back with the information he gathered in Europe.”

“When’ll that be?” Gavin piped up. Thus far, the young man hadn’t said much, but then, he didn’t seem to be quite as vocal as the rest of the men, in Griffin’s estimation.

“Soon,” Bas replied, rubbing his forehead in a weary sort of way. “He called and said that his flight was delayed but that he was looking into changing it.”

Griffin grunted and stood stiffly to head for the kitchen to refresh his cup of tea.

Alastair was working alone . . .? Frowning as he carefully measured grounds into his mug, he considered that. He supposed it was possible. There wasn’t mention of anyone else in the journals. Still, he’d feel better when he had definitive proof that Gregory was acting alone. In the last month, he’d been hard pressed not to worry, and Isabelle hadn’t made fun of his concern, which was proof enough in his mind that the incident had frightened her, too.

To be completely honest, Griffin hadn’t liked the idea of letting her out of his sight. He’d even gone as far as driving her to work before he went to the university and then picking her up when she got off. Nothing had happened, though, and while he was glad of it, he wasn’t about to let his guard down, either. Memories of Alastair with his arms around her were more than enough to send his temper soaring, and even if he wanted to relax his guard, he couldn’t; not as long as there was still a chance that someone might still be out there, lying in wait for Griffin to do just that.

In short, he felt like he was sitting atop a time bomb that was primed and ready to explode.

“Hey, Griffin, do you mind if I get a glass of water?”

Blinking away the remnants of his thoughts, Griffin glanced over his shoulder in time to catch Bas Zelig’s friendly, if not somewhat bashful, grin. “Uh, sure,” he replied. “I-Isabelle bought soda, I think . . . in there,” he went on, nodding at the refrigerator.

Bas nodded but filled a glass with water from the tap, instead. “Guess I haven’t gotten to properly welcome you to the family,” the next tai-youkai remarked pleasantly. “I meant to stop by a couple weeks ago, but it’s been pretty nuts—trying to get information on Alastair Gregory is probably harder than gaining access to Fort Knox . . .” He paused to chuckle then waved a hand as he set the empty glass in the sink. “Then when I mentioned stopping by last week when I was in the neighborhood, Sydnie said it was probably too late to stop by, given that the two of you haven’t been mated long . . .”

It took a minute for the imprecations of Bas’ words to sink in, and luckily for Griffin, the young man was already out of the kitchen when they did. Face heating to what had to be a horrid shade of scarlet, he grunted something completely nonsensical and tried to concentrate on being glad that no one else was in there to witness his acute embarrassment, never mind that there was a good chance that what young Zelig was implying was probably not too far off track.

He sighed. He had to be a martyr; there was no other way to look at it. Why else would his youkai have chosen the one woman who, apparently, had been born bad? There was no reasonable explanation. He’d met her family, after all, and they had seemed normal enough to him. No, the plain and simple truth was that she was possessed by the devil—or maybe she’d been dropped on her head when she was a baby, thus dislodging any semblance of common sense that she ought to have had otherwise . . .

Shaking his head as he grabbed his mug and headed back toward the living room once more, Griffin studiously avoided the looks he received as he set the mug on the table beside his recliner and started to sit down again.

“You’re not going to puke, are you, Gunsie?” Bas asked, narrowing his gaze as he stared at his cousin.

Gunnar cleared his throat and popped one eye open to glower back at Bas. “Have I told you lately that you can go straight to hell?”

Bas grinned. “Probably.”

Gunnar grunted and let his eye close once more. “Then what are you waiting for?”

“You, of course.”

Cain sighed and shook his head but stood up when the knock sounded on the door. “I’ll get it,” he offered, staying Griffin with a hand on his shoulder.

Stifling the urge to roll his eyes, Griffin ignored the intense perusal he was garnering from Gavin Jamison, concentrating instead on stirring his tea before cautiously sipping the fragrant concoction. With the way his luck was going, he figured that it was yet another member of the Zelig’s entourage, anyway.

So it wasn’t entirely surprising when Cain strode back into the living room once more, this time with Ben Philips in tow.

Damn it, they were supposed to be leaving, not multiplying . . .

“Ben, how was your flight?” Bas asked as he got to his feet to shake the youkai’s hand.

“In a word? Long.” Ben nodded and smiled, accepting the gesture and repeating the process with Gavin before extending his hand to Griffin, too. “Gavin . . .” Ben said with a weary little shake of his head. “Dr. Marin. Good to see you, and I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Uh, ah . . . th-thanks,” Griffin muttered, unable to staunch the flow of color that flooded his cheeks at the blatant reminder.

Fortunately, however, Ben didn’t seem interested in prolonging Griffin’s agony. “I apologize for skipping the small talk,” he went on, turning his attention to the gathering at large, “but I’m a bit tired, so I’ll get right to the point. I talked with the MacDonnough, and he assures me that Alastair Gregory bore no affiliation with anyone, as far as he knew—at least, no one of importance. More to the point, he didn’t seem to know who I was talking about, either, as far as that goes.”

“And that doesn’t mean a damn thing,” Gunnar growled without opening his eyes. “MacDonnough isn’t known for being forthcoming with information, now is he?”

“But that doesn’t mean he’s lying, either,” Cain pointed out reasonably. Griffin narrowed his eyes. He didn’t miss the flash of near-hostility that flared behind the tai-youkai’s gaze before he managed to hide it behind a contemplative sort of expression.

Ben nodded, digging his hands into his pockets with an offhanded shrug. “He gave permission for me to search Gregory’s home.”

Rubbing his temple as he considered the youkai general’s words, Bas leaned forward, resting he elbows on his knees. “That doesn’t mean much, either. Someone else could have easily gone in before you got there, you know.”

Again, Ben shrugged. “I thought of that,” he admitted at length. “I doubt it, though. No one else knew that he was killed, did they? I think it’s safe to assume, though, that he’s also the one responsible for Dr. Avis’ death, too.”

“Avis was working for him,” Cain replied.

“Bastard,” Gavin growled quietly.

“Anyway, I’ve dealt with the MacDonnough often enough to know that he was telling me the truth,” Ben continued. “I found an audio journal. I haven’t had time to listen to it yet, though.”

No one answered right away. To be honest, Griffin wasn’t sure what to think. It seemed a little simple, didn’t it? Believing that Gregory was acting alone seemed like the logical thing, given the circumstances, but if he’d learned nothing else in the years of his life, he knew very well that things were rarely as simple as they seemed. Then again, maybe he was just too suspicious of everything and everyone. Still, when it came to the question of Isabelle’s safety, was there really such a thing as ‘too cautious’?

“I’ll continue to monitor the situation,” Ben went on with a reassuring, if not a bit wan, smile. “If I hear tell of anything—and I do mean anything—I’ll let you know right away, Dr. Marin.”

“G-Griffin’s fine,” he muttered, nodding curtly to indicate his thanks.

Ben chuckled. “Just don’t let her too far out of your sight,” he suggested as his grin widened. “I suppose that you won’t be likely to do that, all things considered.”

Griffin grunted in response but didn’t deny the panther-youkai’s assessment. He was about to answer when the odd intonation of his cell phone broke through the quiet. It was too much to hope that the others wouldn’t recognize the God-forsaken song that Isabelle had programmed in to play whenever he received a call. Shooting to his feet, he stomped over to swipe the device off his desk, but not before everyone in the room heard and identified the song in question.

“Why does that song sound familiar?” Ben asked with a shake of his head.

To his credit, Cain was trying to not smile even if he did look like he was going to choke. “It’s the theme from Winnie the Pooh,” he managed to say without laughing outright.

Griffin heaved a sigh as he fumbled with the cell phone. “W-what?” he growled, stubbornly refusing to face the assembly as he smashed the phone against his ear and trying in vain to ignore the blatant throat clearing and the telling sounds of the men shuffling in their seats.

Isabelle’s gentle laughter seemed to reach straight through the connection to soothe the frayed edges of his nerves. “Don’t suppose it’s safe to come home now,” she drawled in lieu of a proper greeting. In the background, he could discern the static sound of people, of traffic, of other activity that all blended together into a wash of white noise, and he figured she was at the mall or something, probably running up the balance on the brand new Visa card she’d procured last week.

Griffin made a face and scrunched his shoulders. “I don’t think they’re done yet,” he muttered as his irritation peaked, “but you live here, don’t you? Suppose that’d mean you can come home if you want.”

Her laughter escalated, probably due to the belligerence he couldn’t quite keep out of his tone. “Do you miss me?” she teased.

He snorted loudly. “About as much as I’d miss having the Plague. Anyway, you’re changing this damn ringtone when you get home.”

“You don’t like it?” she drawled.

As far as that was concerned, he didn’t figure that she deserved an answer. He grunted but didn’t really reply, and she laughed once more. “I got something for you,” she said at length and almost reluctantly.

“I doubt I want it,” he warned since he was well aware of her penchant for buying him entirely inappropriate ‘gifts’.

“Sure, you do,” she replied airily. “If you guys are done with your male bonding, I’ll be home shortly.”

“I’d hardly call it male bonding,” he corrected darkly, painfully aware that all eyes in the room were staring at him and listening intently, too. Clearing his throat, he held the phone a little tighter and unconsciously hunched forward as though to protect the phone from everyone else. “Isabelle . . .?”

“Hmm?”

“Be careful.”

He could hear her smile coming through in her voice. “I will,” she assured him. “I’ll be home soon.”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“Patience, Maria.”

Maria Masta tapped her foot and shot her mate a suspicious glance. “Why is it taking him so long to answer the door?” she asked, ignoring Attean’s knowing expression.

Attean chuckled, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he leaned casually against the wall beside the door. “You just knocked,” he pointed out, “and I did suggest that we call before we stopped by.”

“Don’t be absurd,” she countered huffily, her cheeks pinking as she raised her fist to knock again. “We’re practically family, you know, and my Osezno has never been one to stand upon formality.”

“Point well taken,” he agreed, wisely hiding his amusement behind a well-placed cough. “Perhaps he is preoccupied with his would-be mate.”

Maria wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “The more I think about it, the more I have to wonder if he isn’t just settling for this Isabelle . . . What do we know about her, anyway? Just because she sounds pleasant over the telephone does not mean that she really is worthy of a fine man like him, and you can’t discount what he’s said about her, either.”

“Oh, and what, exactly, has he said?”

Rolling her eyes, Maria looked completely put out by Attean’s seemingly innocent question. “He’s said that she’s fat, if you’ll recall . . .”

Attean blinked slowly as he carefully regarded his mate. Maria felt her cheeks warming but stubbornly refused to back down. “Maria Masta, you aren’t suggesting that you will dislike someone based upon her physical appearance, are you?”

“Of course not,” she contended hotly, “still, you cannot argue that taking a mate is serious business, and you know as well as I do that Osezno has never held much stock in his own looks—”

“Which is a fine thing, considering,” Attean pointed out calmly. “And I shouldn’t wonder that it makes him a better person for it.”

Waving her hands dismissively, Maria obviously wasn’t finished with her assessment yet. “He’s always had self-esteem issues . . . and I don’t want him to settle for what he can get when he should be looking instead for one who deserves a man as fine as he is.”

“Need I remind you, Maria, my dear, that you are assuming that this Isabelle is some sort of abomination?”

“I’m not assuming, it Attean,” she replied almost coldly, her eyes narrowing at his perceived insistence of siding with the enemy. “Osezno has said as much, himself.”

Snapping his mouth closed on his response, Attean slowly shook his head and smiled. “So the real reason for this impromptu vacation is that you wish to spy on Griffin, is it not?”

Maria wrinkled her nose and uttered an indelicate snort designed to let him know what she thought of Attean’s summation. “You make it sound so much worse than what it is,” she pouted.

Attean chuckled and pushed himself away from the wall to slip his arms around his mate. “Let’s go back to the hotel and call,” he suggested, quirking his eyebrows at her. “It doesn’t look like he’s here at the moment, anyway . . .”

“A . . . Attean? M-Maria . . .”

The couple turned in time to see Griffin rounding the corner of the house. His face was flushed, and he carried a sturdy cane, and Maria wondered if he hadn’t just returned from a walk in the forest behind the house.

She didn’t say anything as she quickly looked him over. She had to admit that he looked good—damn good. Considering the number of years since she’d last seen him, it was a welcome relief. Hair stirring in the late afternoon breeze, he looked wary though not unfriendly as he regarded them in the same slow way that she’d come to understand was simply a part of who he was. “Osezno!” she murmured, moving slowly toward the steps as her gait increased.

“Uh, Maria . . .”

It didn’t take long for her to dart across the yard and throw her arms around the bear-youkai’s neck, unable to control her exuberance as she laughed softly and kissed both of his cheeks in turn. “It’s been a long time— _too_ long if you ask me,” she pointed out with a mulish little snort as she stepped back to look him up and down once more. “You shouldn’t—”

“Maria,” Attean interrupted with a tell-tale shake of his head. Maria stared at him for several moments before she read and interpreted what her mate was trying to tell her without saying a word.

“O-oh, my . . .” she murmured faintly. “I . . . oh . . .”

Attean chuckled as he strolled across the yard, reaching around Maria to offer his hand. “So I see that you made your decision.”

Griffin blushed as he took Attean’s hand and shook it, muttering under his breath as his embarrassment spiked. “It was . . . her idea . . . pushy, you know . . .”

“Maria is quite looking forward to meeting your Isabelle,” Attean went on, politely choosing to ignore Griffin’s obvious discomfort.

“Uh, she’s, um . . . a-at the store.”

“Wasn’t this a bit sudden?” Maria blurted, drawing the full attention of both men.

“Sudden?” Attean echoed, his amusement quite evident in the wicked sparkle that danced in his eyes. Maria ignored it.

“W-I . . . I . . . uh, don’t know about, uh, sudden,” Griffin remarked, rubbing the back of his neck in a decidedly nervous sort of way.

“I think what Maria means to say is that we’re quite happy for you—the both of you,” Attean added as he slipped an arm around his mate’s waist.

Maria shot him a dark look and opened her mouth to argue but blinked as a bright yellow coupe turned into the driveway and pulled to a stop.

Griffin stifled a sigh—Maria didn’t miss it.

She wasn’t entirely sure what she really had expected. She supposed that, given Griffin’s less-than-complimentary description, she was prepared for the worst. What she wasn’t ready for was the drop-dead gorgeous woman who got out of the car. Waist length bronze hair caught back by a tortoiseshell barrette though strands of it had escaped to hang around her delicate face shone in the bright afternoon sunshine, and her skin seemed to glow with an unnatural incandescence. Still, it paled in comparison to the absolute luminance of the golden eyes that flicked over her and Attean in a frank and candid way. Tall enough to reach Griffin’s shoulder, she wasn’t a tiny woman, by any means, and the light blue baby-doll dress she wore clung to her figure without seeming overdone. What was it Griffin had called her? Fat ass? Maria shook her head, unable to reconcile the woman she saw with the woman that Griffin had described.

Isabelle, however, seemed taken aback by the unexpected visitors, but she glanced at Griffin and must have decided that they were all right since she smiled brightly as she used her hip to bump the door closed. “Hello,” she greeted.

“But you’re not _fat!_ ” Maria blurted before she could stop herself.

Attean choked out a bark of laughter. Griffin’s face reddened even more. Maria realized a moment too late that she’d actually said that out loud and blushed painfully.

The woman tossed her bronze mane of hair back as gales of laughter spilled from her rosy lips. She seemed genuinely amused. “Of course I am!” Isabelle replied between giggles.

Griffin grunted, digging his hands into his pockets though he looked entirely disgruntled, and Maria had to wonder why. “You called about three hours ago and said you were coming home,” he pointed out quietly.

Isabelle leaned up to kiss him on the cheek, which only served to deepen his already pronounced blush. “I’m sorry,” she said as she rubbed the hint of mauve lipstick from his cheek. “I ran into Jillian and Gin, and they asked me to have tea with them . . . I tried to call, but you didn’t answer the phone.”

“I went for a walk,” he explained, ducking away from her fingers. The acute irritation on his features dissipated a little, and he looked more relieved and almost a little contrite. “Didn’t think your family was ever going to leave.”

She laughed again before returning her attention to Maria once more. “You must be Maria,” she guessed, extending her hand in greeting.

Maria shook it and snapped her mouth closed since she still hadn’t quite reconciled herself to the vision of the woman—Griffin’s mate—and shook her hand.

“And you must be Attean,” she remarked, shifting her hand to the side.

Attean caught her fingers and brought the back of her hand to his lips. “Your pictures were lovely, but they certainly did not do you justice,” he remarked.

Isabelle’s smile widened. “Oh? Did Griffin send you pictures?”

Griffin snorted loudly, and Isabelle laughed again. “I’m not nearly that mean,” he muttered.

Attean winked. “No, but I did some digging, of course. The internet is an amazing tool.”

“Would you like to come in? I can make some tea,” she offered.

Attean nodded, slipping an arm around Maria’s waist and carting her about to head toward the porch behind Griffin and Isabelle.

It was humiliating, wasn’t it? She couldn’t believe that she’d actually said all that out loud. She hadn’t meant to. Why on earth had Griffin said that Isabelle was fat if she wasn’t? It didn’t make sense, did it, and Attean . . . Stopping short, Maria’s eyes flared as she recalled exactly what he’d just said, and she caught his arm to stay him as he started to follow the couple into the house. “Attean . . .” she began slowly.

He spared her a quick glance—an almost nervous glance. “Yes, my love?”

Maria narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest and lowering her voice so that she wouldn’t be overheard. “Pictures . . .?”

He coughed delicately and offered her an apologetic sort of smile that she saw right through. “Yes, I saw pictures.”

“And you didn’t think to share them with me?”

He chuckled at the accusing tone in her voice. “You didn’t ask to see them, and you were having so much fun assuming that Isabelle was—how did you put it? Ah, yes, fat . . . Well, I didn’t think you wanted to know that she really wasn’t heavy at all . . .”

“You’re a horrible man, Attean Masta,” she pouted.

His chuckle escalated, and he kissed her temple. “And you love me,” he pointed out.

She snorted but didn’t answer as he took her hand and tugged her toward the front door.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final_** **_Thought_** **_from_** **_Maria_** :  
>  _But she isn’t_ _…_ _fat_ …


	72. The Last Mile

Attean stepped back and scratched his chin thoughtfully as he tried not to laugh outright at the absolutely belligerent expression on Griffin’s face.

Oh, it had started innocently enough. The two were sitting around enjoying mugs of herbal tea while the women were off doing God only knew what in the guise of shopping, or so they’d claimed. Odd, really, how quickly Maria had taken to Isabelle. She’d been so set on disliking her when they’d boarded the plane that had brought them to Griffin’s house in Maine that it only served to affirm in Attean’s mind that he would never, ever understand his mate.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t so surprising. There was just something about Isabelle that seemed to draw people close—a friendliness that couldn’t be denied. Maybe that was what had lured Griffin in, to start with. No doubt about it: as far as Attean could tell, Isabelle was good for Griffin. There was a certain level of contentment in his long time friend that he couldn’t recall ever having sensed before, and that, as far as Attean was concerned, was a beautiful thing. Whatever haunted Griffin for so long . . . Isabelle had healed that inside him, hadn’t she?

So it was that thought that had prompted Attean to make the remark that had instigated this entire venture, and while he figured that he ought to feel bad for manipulating the situation, he had to admit that, well, he just didn’t . . .

“ _So when are you going to marry your beautiful mate?” Attean asked as he settled comfortably on the sofa in the somewhat darkened living room in Griffin’s home_.

 _Griffin, however, had just taken a sip of tea, and he coughed a little pathetically as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand. Face blossoming in embarrassed color, the bear-youkai looked around almost wildly, as if he thought that Attean was speaking to someone else. “Uh, ah, what?” he stammered, giving up on the idea that someone else had managed to sneak into his house when he wasn’t looking_.

 _Attean chuckled. “You heard me. When do you plan on marrying her?_ ”

 _Leaning forward after thumping his mug onto the stand beside the recliner he was occupying, Griffin shrugged and shook his head but refused to meet Attean’s gaze. “We, uh . . . we haven’t talked about it,” he muttered_.

 _Attean nodded slowly since he also figured that Griffin hadn’t actually thought about it, either—which was why he had mentioned it, in the first place. “She strikes me as the marrying kind,” he went on in a carefully casual tone. Taking his time adjusting the watch that Maria had given him for Christmas last year, it struck him again that for a man as intelligent as Griffin Marin was, he really didn’t have a clue when it came to women_.

“ _The marrying kind?” Griffin echoed incredulously. “What’s that mean?_ ”

“ _It means,” Attean went on after a careful sip of tea, “she’s the kind of woman who wants to honor her mate by bearing his last name_.”

 _Griffin snorted though his cheeks reddened, too. “That’s just a human convention_.”

“ _And she is half human, isn’t she?_ ”

“ _Maria’s_ all _human, and you didn’t marry her_.”

“ _I did,” Attean argued mildly. “We got married by our standards_.”

“ _What’s that mean?_ ”

“ _That means that we didn’t get married in a church; you’re right. The vows we made, however, were witnessed in our hearts, and that was more than enough for us. Besides that, you were there when we performed the Native American ceremony later, weren’t you.” It wasn’t a question_.

 _Griffin snorted but didn’t reply_.

“ _So,” Attean went on at length when he figured that Griffin really wasn’t going to comment, “how are you planning to pop the big question?_ ”

 _Griffin grimaced and glanced at Attean. “I-I don’t know,” he growled. “You just_ ask _, right?_ ”

“ _That would be the most direct route,” Attean agreed. “I trust you have a ring already?_ ”

“ _A . . . ring . . .?_ ”

 _Attean sighed and shook his head. He’d almost forgotten that he was talking to Griffin. Of course he didn’t_ . . .

And that was why they were here. After a bit of goading, Attean had finally managed to convince Griffin to bite the bullet and do it. Too bad Griffin looked like he was going to rip someone to bits . . . or puke. Both options boded ill for Marin. Either way, Attean would be able to look back on this moment and laugh. Still, he had a feeling that it wasn’t the idea of buying an engagement ring for Isabelle that was bothering his friend nearly as much as the sense of self-consciousness that was so painfully obvious that Attean almost felt sorry for him.

“Good afternoon! Is there something I can help you with?”

Griffin jumped when the saleswoman started to speak, and he only cast her a cursory glance before ducking his chin and tilting his head just enough to hide the scarred side of his face just a little more. “I, uh . . . I’m looking for a . . . a ring.”

The woman smiled brightly as she tucked a lock of shoulder-length brown hair behind her ear. “We have plenty of those. Anything in particular?”

Griffin cleared his throat and shrugged. “Uh . . . well, I . . . err . . .”

Attean chuckled and clapped a hand on Griffin’s shoulder. “My friend, here, is looking for an engagement ring,” he supplied with a smile as he stepped up beside Griffin.

“Oh, okay! Are you looking for something traditional? Something trendier? A wraparound, maybe?”

Judging from the almost puzzled set of Griffin’s features, he hadn’t comprehended any of those options. “Perhaps you could point us in the right direction for browsing?” Attean asked instead.

The girl’s smile widened, and she moved down to the next display counter. “We just got some really lovely rings in last week.”

Griffin stepped down, too, and frowned at the menagerie. “C-can I see that one?” he asked, pointing at a very simple solitaire diamond set in a matte finish platinum band.

The girl nodded and unlocked the cabinet. Griffin cleared his throat as he waited for her to pull the ring out of the tiny jeweler’s box. “Here you are,” she said, holding out the ring for his inspection.

He hesitated for a moment before reaching for it. The girl blinked when she caught sight of the scars on his hand, but she didn’t falter. “I really like the finish on that one,” she went on in a conversational tone.

Griffin glanced at her and nodded as he took the ring from her. “It’s, um, pretty,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes as he stared at it.

“All of our diamonds are certified by an independent appraiser and are guaranteed to be flawless. That one is a ‘D’ color—”

“What does that mean? ‘D’ color?” Griffin interrupted without taking his eyes off the ring he was thoroughly examining.

She laughed softly. “That means that it’s a white diamond. We have a couple yellow diamonds in stock, if you’d rather, or we can special order else if you would prefer. A gentleman who came in last week ordered a pink diamond . . . It was really spectacular . . .”

“I think . . . I like the white ones,” Griffin mused.

“You seem like a traditional kind of guy,” she agreed as she pulled a nondescript black binder from between the cash register and the raised portion of the counter display. “I believe that ring is two carats: the table percentage of it is . . . fifty-eight,” she read off an inventory table as she balanced the binder in one hand and pushed her glasses up with the other.

Griffin glanced at Attean, his eyebrows drawing together in a thoughtful scowl. “It . . . doesn’t seem very big . . .”

“The ring, itself, or the stone?” he asked.

Griffin shrugged. “The stone.”

“Do you want her to be able to lift her hand?” he teased.

That earned him a slightly darker scowl. “I-I have money,” he growled defensively.

Attean chuckled. “Of course you do, but . . . what is that old saying . . .? ‘ _It’s not the size that matters_ . . .’”

The girl twittered out a demure laugh and blushed prettily. Attean winked at her. Griffin either didn’t understand the double entendre or he just didn’t bother to remark on it. Attean figured it was the first of those options . . .

“Yeah, but she . . . well, she . . . she’s got a big . . . everything else, so maybe . . .”

“If you don’t like that one, then ask to see a different one,” Attean supplied reasonably.

Griffin shook his head stubbornly. “I-I like this one,” he blurted. “I just . . . I don’t want her to think . . .”

“I’d be thrilled if my boyfriend bought me that ring,” the salesgirl chimed in. “It’s gorgeous, and trust me: when it comes to something like that, if you feel in your heart that it’s the right ring for her, then it doesn’t matter how large or small the diamond is.”

“The . . . right ring . . .?” Griffin echoed with a shake of his head.

The girl nodded. “Yeah. Something like this? It should be the one that you look at, and you think that it’s just perfect for her—that you just can’t imagine buying a different one for her.”

Griffin considered that for a moment as he continued to examine the ring in question. “I-I don’t know,” he finally said. “I mean, it just looks like a . . . ring . . .”

“Imagine what it would look like on her finger,” Attean offered helpfully.

Griffin snorted and shook his head. “It’s a ring,” he pointed out again in a slightly more foreboding tone.

Attean rolled his eyes and grabbed the ring, slipping it onto his pinky in one fluid motion. It only fit to above his first joint, and he held out his hand, splaying his fingers so that Griffin could see how the ring looked. “How’s that?”

He snorted again. “I’m not marrying you,” he mumbled, narrowing his gaze in obvious irritation.

The girl clapped her hands over her mouth to staunch her amusement, but the sparkle in her eyes gave her away.

“You wanted to see it on a finger, so I’m helping,” Attean corrected. “Better?”

“Not really,” Griffin stated, reaching over and jerking the ring off Attean’s hand. “I-I _definitely_ don’t want that one,” he growled, thrusting it under the girl’s nose.

The girl’s laughter bubbled out, and Attean couldn’t help but chuckle, too. Griffin snorted indelicately, muttering under his breath that he’d much rather do this alone. Attean ignored the comment.

“I was simply trying to assist you,” Attean went on airily.

That earned him a completely droll sort of look. “You _could_ wait outsi—” Cutting himself off abruptly, Griffin leaned down and narrowed his eyes as he examined another ring through the glass countertop. “”C-could I see that one, please?” he muttered, jabbing his index finger against the surface directly above the ring in question.

The woman nodded and uttered a soft, “Mhmm,” as she slipped the first ring back into the box and replaced it in the secured cabinet. The soft beep of the security field sounded as she pulled the other ring box out. “Here you go,” she said, pulling the ring from the bed of luxurious silk and spared a moment to look the piece over before extending it to him. “That’s one of our more expensive ones. The engagement ring is set with a three carat class ‘D’ white diamond, table percentage at sixty . . . expensive, but definitely a gorgeous ring. It’s also nice because the ring is designed to look good with any band you choose, but it does actually have a custom wraparound band if you’d like to see it, too.”

“Wraparound?” Griffin echoed without taking his gaze off the ring. His eyes had brightened—taken on a strange sort of glow, the likes of which Attean couldn’t recall seeing in Griffin’s expression before. It was the unmistakable look of a man who was trying to gather his courage for this sort of venture. Full of cautious hope, a little reluctance, a deep-rooted happiness, Griffin didn’t smile, but then, he didn’t have to, and Attean curled his fingers over his own lips, lest Griffin should look up and see the amusement that he couldn’t hide.

“Yes . . . that means it has a special wedding band that was created to wrap around that diamond. Would you care to see it, too?” she supplied.

Griffin nodded without a word and only handed over the ring when the girl cleared her throat. She took the ring carefully and put it together with the band then held it out for his inspection. “If you purchase rings from us, we do also offer complimentary soldering after your wedding.”

He considered that for a long moment then nodded as he silently reached for the rings to get a better look for himself. “I . . . I think these are okay . . .” he mumbled, cheeks reddening. Almost tentatively, he set the rings on the counter before digging into his pocket for his checkbook.

“Okay,” she said, carefully replacing the rings in the boxes. Do you need to have those sized for her?”

“Sized?”

Attean pressed his lips together when he noticed how badly Griffin’s hand was shaking. The bear refreshed his grip on the thick barrel of the ink pen that he kept inside the checkbook. The shaking lessened but didn’t go away completely.

“Sure . . . we carry size seven as standard here, but if you need to have it sized to fit her, then we can do that, too.”

“I don’t . . . know,” Griffin admitted as he scribbled his name on the check. “You . . . you have one of those check writers, right?”

She nodded, using a hand scanner to scan in the bar code out of the black binder. “Yes, sir . . . I’ll go get the paperwork that goes with your rings. It explains our guarantees and services.”

Griffin jerked his head once in a curt nod then winced as the intonation of his cell phone interrupted the moment.

“That song,” Attean said slowly, scratching his chin as he tried to figure out exactly why it sounded familiar to him, “what is it?”

Griffin snorted, digging the phone out of his pocket as his already red face darkened a couple shades, and he fumbled with the device. “Proof that Isabelle’s completely bent,” he muttered, flipping the phone open and jamming it against the side of his head. “You forgot to change this stupid song,” he growled low enough that a human might not have heard him.

Attean didn’t miss the sound of Isabelle’s faraway laughter.

“You’re going to change it as soon as I get home,” he pointed out.

The saleswoman returned with an emerald green folder. Griffin waved his hand toward the open checkbook on the counter, and Attean nodded, carefully pulling the check loose before handing it to the woman. Griffin reached over and turned the checkbook around so that she could see his ID card, all the while uttering a series of grunts and mumbled responses to whatever it was that his beautiful mate was saying to him.

“I’ll be home in a little while,” Griffin supplied, tapping his foot impatiently as he stowed the checkbook into his pocket once more.

The woman finished checking out the order and carefully placed both ring boxes and the folder into a thick, deep green paper bag with raffia handles, handed it to Griffin, and whispered ‘goodbye’ to the men as they turned to leave.

As they stepped outside, Griffin snapped the phone closed with a sigh and shook his head, hunching his shoulders slightly and ducking his head. Attean wondered if he even realized what he was doing, but didn’t comment on it.

“I take it that was your mate?” he asked at length as they headed for Attean’s rental car.

Griffin snorted. “I left her a note,” he muttered.

Attean laughed as he climbed into the automobile. “It shows she cares,” he replied.

“Is that what you call it?” Griffin shot back as he pulled the passenger side door closed.

“It’s the _safest_ thing to call it,” Attean supplied.

Griffin was quiet for a moment as Attean started the car and backed out of the parking spot. When he glanced at the bear, he smiled when he saw that Griffin had retrieved the ring from the confines of the bag and was staring at it again. “It doesn’t get any better, does it?” Griffin finally mused.

Attean chuckled as he turned onto the street that led toward Griffin’s house. “Well, I . . . uh . . . no,” he admitted with a little shrug. “It doesn’t.”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle rubbed her eyes as she shuffled into the living room with a wan little smile still gracing her lips. Griffin sighed in an infinitely tired sort of way, and when he saw her, he shifted slightly in his recliner. “Didn’t think they’d ever leave,” he muttered with a shake of his head.

“They’re your friends, and I like them,” she pointed out with a soft laugh as plopped onto the sofa. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?”

He didn’t respond right away, but he did shift again. Isabelle pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. In the last few weeks since they’d officially become mates, she’d come to understand a few things. Griffin just wasn’t the demonstrative type, but that didn’t mean that he was above hinting whenever he wanted her attention, either. Most often, he did little things like moving over just enough to show her that there was room in his chair for her, too. She pushed herself to her feet and wandered over to him, slipping onto his lap and giggling when he uttered his customary grunt of token protest.

“So what kind of errand did you and Attean ‘need’ to do?” she asked lightly.

“Break me, why don’t you?” he grumbled as he slipped his arms around her waist. “It’s none of your business. If you wanted to know, then you should have stayed home and eavesdropped.”

“Maybe,” she allowed, kissing the cheek that he leaned toward her in blatant invitation. “You’re really not going to tell me?”

Griffin shrugged. “You’re nosy, did you know?”

She laughed and kissed him again.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” he accused, narrowing his eyes on her as his arms tightened just a little.

“Oh? And what am I trying to do?” she countered.

He grunted. “You’re trying to infest me with your dog germs.”

She snapped her mouth closed and pressed her lips together as her nostrils flared and she fought back the urge to smile. “So you figured me out.”

“Wasn’t that hard to do,” he assured her.

Nestling against him, she heaved a contented sigh and almost let her eyes drift closed when a sudden thought struck her. “Griffin?”

“What?”

“Where’s your phone?”

He paused for a moment as he shook out the newspaper and shot her a quick glance. “I don’t know,” he muttered, cheeks pinking just a little. “On my desk or something. Why?”

“You wanted me to change the ringtone, right?” she reminded him, kissing his cheek when he inclined his head toward her in what she’d come to learn was a hint.

He snorted and dropped the newspaper onto the table beside the recliner. “You go running around with Maria all day, don’t see me for hours while you’re off doing God only knows what, but I’m sure it was bad, and now you want to waste more time messing with that?”

“But you said you wanted me to change it the minute you got home,” she pointed out reasonably.

“If you’d rather spend your time with a stupid lump of plastic, be my guest,” he grumbled, his arms tightening around her to counter his claims to the contrary.

Isabelle giggled and shook her head as she pushed herself up on her knees and straddled his lap, slipping her arms around his neck. “When you put it _that_ way,” she said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, “I suppose that it could wait . . .”

“C-c-could it?” he stammered, his face reddening a little more as she brushed her lips over his the softest of caresses. She could feel the unsteady rhythm of his beating heart creating a palpitation in his youki that surrounded her as tightly as his arms. Her lips brushed over his again once, twice, only to return in the gentlest rain of kisses: kisses as light as a butterfly’s wings.

He sighed quietly—almost a breath, not quite a sound. He groaned when she ground her hips against him, using her body to entice him as the wicked burn of passion ignited deep within her.

“Isa . . . belle . . .” he murmured, turning his face to the side to avoid her. “Stop.”

Her breathing was unsteady, and she ignored him, leaning in, nuzzling against his neck. His ever-present stubble chafed her, but it was a delicious sensation. “I don’t want to,” she stated simply, covering his throat in balmy kisses.

“I-i-it’s still . . . light . . . outside,” he rasped out, unconsciously letting his head fall further to the side, allowing her open access to him. “W . . . ait . . .”

“I know; I know,” she nearly purred, her voice muffled by his flesh, her words broken by relentless kisses that she refused to stop showering on him. “You hate looking . . . at me . . . but I . . . _love_ . . . looking . . . at . . . you . . .”

“Just . . . _God_ . . . wait . . .” he managed once more.

“I’ve never been a patient woman,” she pointed out, flicking out the tip of her tongue against the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple.

“Isabelle . . .” he protested once more.

“Want me to get a bag to put over my head?” she teased.

He snorted but it was much weaker than usual. “Preferably plastic,” he muttered.

She laughed unevenly without faltering in her assault on his senses. Running her hands up and down his chest under his shirt, she savored the feel of his skin, burning to her touch but so very inviting. He shivered, his body reacting even if he wanted to protest. “I want you, Griffin Marin,” she whispered.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she understood what he was trying to say. He hated when she looked at him; hated his perceived flaws so badly that it was never far away in his mind. Too bad she was tired of that. Determined to let him know, once and for all, exactly what she thought of him, of his body, of everything about him, she responded to his feeble attempts to put her off in kind.

Letting her hands trail down his chest, she pushed his shirt up, leaning away only to discard his garments and her simple sundress. He closed his eyes to block out the sight of her—breasts flushed, rising and falling with her labored breaths. She laughed unevenly, undulating her torso, using her body to caress him. He growled again—a rough sound—a trembling reminder of the barely restrained power that he possessed. His arms locked around her, his hands burning her flesh as he clung to her desperately, unable to let go.

Fingertips tracing over the intersection of scars that marred his skin, Isabelle let her lips linger on his collarbone, on his chest. He quaked under her perusal, his youki ebbing over hers with such a tenderness that it brought tears to her eyes.

Kissing her way down his chest, down his stomach, she touched him to her heart’s content, and while she could vaguely discern in her addled and frazzled mind that he was still uncomfortable with her attention, but she consoled herself with the fleeting thought that one day, he would thank her for it . . .

Grasping her shoulders, Griffin pushed her back gently but firmly, the breath constricting in his lungs as he tried to clear his mind enough to speak. “I-Isabelle,” he finally managed.

Skin flushed, she slowly opened her eyes to cast him a petulant little pout. Griffin had to struggle to keep a hold of his rapidly dwindling control. “We should . . . at least . . . i-in the bedr-room . . .” he stammered.

She considered that for a moment then slowly shook her head, her nimble fingers slipping under his waistband as she slowly ran her hand back and forth. “Just relax,” she purred, flicking the button of his jeans open with her thumb. The shock of her touch was as new and unsettling as it had been the very first time—a sensation that he could only pray never, ever changed, and while he ought to show at least a token resistance, he just . . . well, damn it, he couldn’t.

And he couldn’t shake the bemusement that had settled over him, either. Letting go of her as he flopped back against the thickly padded recliner once more, it felt more like a dream than reality as Isabelle slipped off his lap and onto her knees. Breathing required entirely too much concentration: far more than he possessed. Still he was able to lift his hips when she tugged on his jeans as the sensation of lightheadedness grew around him.

She let his pants fall on the floor as she pushed his knees apart. Closing his eyes against the sight of her, settled so demurely before him, he couldn’t figure out why his body felt so leaden—his arms too heavy to move despite the whisper in the back of his head that there was a blanket folded over his recliner, and as much as he wanted to cover himself, the shocking feel of her fluttering touch was enough to obliterate everything else in his head. His body ached painfully—so painfully that he felt like he was going to die. The need that surged through him was insane—enough to force a roughened snarl from him. Every pulse centered on her: on her touch, her scent, her aura.

She reached for him, wrapped her hands around the length of him, squeezing him. His entire body reacted, a riot of nerves firing off all together like a cluster of fireworks on the Fourth of July. He wasn’t sure if he’d called out her name or if it was just so ingrained in him that it escaped him like a breath or a sigh, as natural to him as though she were an extension of him. Her touch was enough to expel every last bit of conscious thought from him, leaving him reeling, body tensing, every sensation shattering only to build higher, thicker, stronger than anything he’d ever known before. “N . . .” he gasped as the air rushed out of his lungs.

But she wasn’t finished. With a strangled cry that he couldn’t contain, his eyes flashed open at the shocking heat—the moist confines of something so inebriating that he couldn’t rightly comprehend it. In the flash of a heartbeat, he saw her, her eyes closed, her lips glistening with her own saliva as she drew him in deep—deeper and deeper. Her tongue stroked him, flicked over him. The sensation grew too fast, too heady, spurring on a frenzied abandon in a torrent of half-formed thoughts and inane words that meant everything and, at the same time, meant nothing at all.

The spiral of sensation swelled and roiled, culminating in a complete frenzy that couldn’t be controlled. The emotion shifted so quickly that it couldn’t be discerned from one moment to the next. The escalating desire exploded in a deluge of tactile sensation; want became need and need became something completely indefinable. The tightness that had wrapped itself around him seemed to choke off his breathing. An entirely excruciating ache spread throughout his body, a pressure building so rapidly that it almost frightened him. The pulsating pain echoed the steadily increasing speed of Isabelle’s movements as she held onto him.

Then it shattered into a million fragments—the ache detonating as the last bit of his sanity gave way. Body twitching as pleasure so intense that it almost hurt gripped him, Griffin was vaguely aware of the bear-like growl that he couldn’t contain. He was going to go mad if she didn’t stop, wasn’t he? A physical body wasn’t created to endure anything as shattering as that, was it?

But she wasn’t finished. It took him a minute to regain a semblance of his composure, and that was short-lived, too. Sensation was rapidly taking over again, and he had to force his eyes open as another groan slipped from him. Isabelle had climbed back into his lap, and the sensation of her, grinding her hips down on his, was entirely shocking and wholly welcome.

Unable to control his own movements, he gripped her hips, jerking her roughly against him time and again. The pleasure was back tenfold, and he couldn’t do anything except surrender himself to the feelings as she jerked and writhed against him. Her breathing was punctuated by little moans, the softest whimpers as he yanked her down over and over. The scent of their bodies tinged the air, tingled in his nostrils, only to goad him further, faster, even as he ignored the burning pain that shot down his arms, down his legs. Face flushed, eyes closed, she half-whispered, half-moaned his name as her movements grew more frantic, as the draw of her passion reverberated from her to him and back again.

Her cry mingled with his own as the web of sensation broke once more: endearments heard but forgotten in the space of an instant, a breath, a welcome gush of light and sound and sensation . . .

She collapsed against him, her body trembling as she laughed and cried at the same time. Huddling against him as she murmured nonsense, she kissed him a hundred times if she kissed him once, her heartbeat hammering in his ears as the sense of falling slowly waned.

Griffin smoothed her hair back, kissed her forehead as he pulled her closer. Through the flow of incoherent babble, he could hear the emotion in her tone, and for a moment—just for the moment—he smiled a little as he reached behind them, tugging the blanket off the back of the recliner and spreading it over them both.

Isabelle fell silent, though her breathing was still harsh and labored. Content to be held, she yawned quietly and snuggled deeper into the crook of his arm.

“Isa . . . belle?” he murmured. On the one hand, he was loathe to end the beauty of that insular moment, but on the other . . .

“Hmm?” she drawled, her voice little more than a whisper.

He drew a deep breath and cleared his throat, his eyes shifting to the side as he slowly regarded the sturdy table beside the chair. He’d barely had time to stick the ring box in the drawer of that table when he’d gotten home. He doubted he could reach it, but . . .

And why was it that one simple question could make him break out in a cold sweat, anyway?

Stifling the urge to sigh, he cleared his throat again and tried to force the words to come. They wouldn’t. stuck somewhere between his brain and his voice, the will to speak was tempered by the sudden and vicious surge of latent fear, and while the voice in his head assured him that he was being ridiculous, he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe he was being stupid. She already had him, didn’t she? She didn’t have to marry him to be his mate, and he knew that, too . . .

Fighting to ignore the unreasonable grip of panic that set in, Griffin grimaced inwardly and unconsciously tightened his hold on Isabelle. A contented sigh slipped from her, and he could feel the muscles in her face shift against his chest as she smiled.

‘ _Don’t be ridiculous, Griffin! Just ask her, will you?_ ’

‘ _I-it’s not that easy_ ,’ he retorted. ‘ _What if she . . .?_ ’

‘ _What if she, what? Says no? Do you honestly think she would?_ ’

He snorted. ‘ _If she knew that it would make me squirm, yes_ . . .’

‘ _Now you’re just being stupid. Suck it up and ask her!_ ’

Just ask her . . .

Trying not to think about how simple his youkai voice made the entire thing sound, Griffin cleared his throat yet again. “I-I-I was thinking . . .” he heard himself saying, “I mean, since I’m stuck with you . . .” Good God, it was difficult—more difficult than anything he’d ever tried to say before. Swallowing hard—why was his mouth suddenly bone-dry?—he snorted indelicately and blurted, “Might as well do it, right? I mean, I just—We should—Do you want to—I-I-I guess I’m asking you to . . .” Trailing off, he drew a deep breath and tried to force down the fist-sized lump that was blocking his ability to draw breath, “W-Will you—?”

Cutting himself off abruptly as he leaned to the side enough to see her face, Griffin’s eyes flared wide as he slowly shook his head in abject disbelief. “—go to sleep,” he grumbled, cheeks heating furiously. Shaking his head and heaving a sigh, he snapped his mouth closed and shifted just enough to alleviate the dull ache in his body that was slowly but steadily growing worse. “You’ll be the death of me, yet,” he grumbled though his tone lacked any real irritation.

It just figured, didn’t it? Skin still slightly flushed and hair tangled and wanton from their unscheduled activities, she’d wasted no time in falling asleep. Darkened eyelashes fanning over her cheeks, she was completely oblivious to his acute discomfort. Caught up in a realm where she was just beyond him, she sighed softly, her lips twitching just the tiniest big, as though she were talking to someone in her dreams. “You’re such a pain in my ass,” he mused.

She smiled vaguely in her sleep, and Griffin sighed, too. He had serious doubts that he could really be irritated with her, and that just figured, didn’t it?

He just needed to figure out how that whole proposal thing went. After all, she wouldn’t turn him down . . .

Would she . . .?

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final_** **_Thought_** **_from_** **_Griffin_** :  
> … _She … fell asleep … again_ …


	73. Impossible

Griffin scowled at the entirely mocking glimmer of the simple yet beautiful ring nestled in the bed of velvet inside the jeweler’s box. Ignoring the chill in the air that rattled over him with a vicious tenacity, he let out a long, drawn out sigh and slowly shook his head.

Why in the world was asking one simple question so damn difficult?

Oh, it had seemed easy enough, hadn’t it? The principle behind it was completely, almost ridiculously, elementary: ask her to marry him. She was his mate, after all, and that should speak volumes, right?

Wrong, apparently.

He’d come close a number of times in the nearly two months since he’d bought the stupid ring. The best opportunity that he’d had was on their two month anniversary—a date that he’d noticed when he’d looked at the calendar on his desk at the university, but he honestly hadn’t thought that she’d think twice about it. To his surprise, though, she had greeted him when he’d walked through the door a few hours later in a short but demure black dress with a smile and her head tilted to the side as she worked at putting in a small diamond stud earring. He’d let her talk her into taking her out to taking her to dinner at the quiet seafood restaurant that he favored, and after tripping over his tongue a few times while he tried to make sense of the idea that she looked absolutely stunning—while he tried to grasp the knowledge that she really was his—his mate, his life, his . . . _everything_.

Still, it wasn’t until they were lying in bed that night that he’d realized that he’d missed a perfect opportunity to ask her the question that was close to driving him mad. He’d had the damn ring in his pocket all evening—to be honest, he’d carried the stupid thing with him everywhere since he’d bought it, just waiting for a good time to garner the courage to ask her, and yet . . .

He sighed again, lifting his face to scowl at the overcast skies above as the wind ripped through his hair, stinging his eyes when he refused to blink. The main problem, he knew, was that he just kept backing down. If he’d tried to ask her once, he’d tried a thousand times, and each time, he’d chickened out at the last moment, normally ending up asking something completely inane, and all because he just couldn’t seem to find the words to ask her the question that was first and foremost in his mind.

“ _Isabelle?_ ”

 _Glancing up from the novel she was reading, she spared a moment to smile at him though she didn’t set the book aside. “Hmm?_ ”

 _He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Slowly, her smile faltered, only to be replaced by a concerned sort of expression. “Griffin? Are you all right?_ ”

“ _Uh, y-yeah. Fine,” he blurted, quickly turning away before she could discern too much. “I, um, I-I was going to get a cup of tea. Thought I’d ask if you . . . wanted one_ . . .”

“ _Oh,” she replied, her voice registering her relief as she turned her attention back to the book once more. “Okay, sure . . . thanks_ . . .”

And it had gone like that pretty much every time he thought to ask her the million dollar question.

What if she said, ‘no’ . . .?

That was it: the awful truth. As much as he tried to tell himself that he was being ridiculous, the fear was still there. If he asked, and she said that she didn’t want to marry him . . .

Wincing as the bitter spike of bile rose in his throat, he couldn’t help but feel completely foolish. Too bad that he couldn’t seem to remember that when he was staring at her . . .

‘ _You know, Griffin, I’ve been thinking_ . . .’

Snapping out of his reverie at the almost timid quality in his youkai’s voice, Griffin blinked and lowered his face as his grip on the ring box tightened. ‘ _About what?_ ’ he asked, unsure if he really wanted to hear it or not.

‘ _Well . . . maybe it’d be easier if you, you know, practiced or something_ . . .’

‘ _Practiced . . .?_ ’

‘ _Sure . . . if you practice enough, then maybe it will be easier when you do it for real_.’

He snorted loudly since he highly doubted that much of anything would make it ‘easier’. Still, he had to admit, however grudgingly, that the idea of practicing did have its merit . . .

So it was with that idea firmly in his head that Griffin cleared his throat. “I-Isabelle, I was . . . wondering . . .”

Grimacing as an uncomfortable heat infiltrated his cheeks, he couldn’t help the feeling that he was being a complete idiot.

A chattering squirrel drew his attention, and he narrowed his eyes. The creature was staring at him, seemingly demanding another ear of corn since it had already managed to strip the first one bare. It had also gotten used to the ruckus that Charlie made every morning, too. Since Griffin refused to let the dog outside while he was feeding the squirrels and enjoying his morning cup of tea, the dog had developed the worst habit of sitting just inside the door, scratching pathetically in hopes that he would be able to garner Griffin’s pity. It never had worked, but that didn’t dissuade the animal from trying.

But the squirrel seemed entirely set on getting more food, and Griffin blinked when it rattled off a series of squeaks.

“Forget it, you,” Griffin muttered with a shake of his head as he shoved the ring box into his pocket. “I know damn well that winter’s coming, but you’re getting fat— _almost_ as fat as that woman who’s probably still sleeping . . .”

The squirrel tipped its head to the side and chattered a bit more.

“I don’t care if you . . .” Trailing off as his eyes flared wider, Griffin suddenly turned on his heel and strode toward the back door.

It didn’t take long for him to fetch another ear of corn from the paper bag under the kitchen sink, and he was outside again before he knew it, trying to ignore the voice in the back of his mind that was laughing at him. It took even less time to stick the new ear on the spike, and for once, he tossed the empty cob in the general direction of the pile by the kiln instead of walking over to deposit it.

Turning back to the squirrel who was opting to ignore him as it worked on the new ear he’d put out, Griffin licked his lips and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “You’re going to help me,” he told the squirrel. “I fed you, so you can humor me.”

That earned him a cursory glance. He figured that was good enough. Satisfied that the squirrel would sit still long enough for him to practice on something living so that he wouldn’t feel quite as stupid as he did when he was talking to himself, he slowly pulled the ring out of his pocket again and carefully opened the lid . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“They’ll agree to come, won’t they?”

Cain Zelig smiled down at his mate as he held out his hand to help her out of the vehicle.   “I hope so.”

Gin wrinkled her nose then shot him one of her absolutely adorable grins, wrapping her arms protectively around the small wicker basket she’d brought along. “Oh, they just have to!” she intoned stubbornly. “After all, Kichiro and Bellaniece are flying in, and she can’t possibly have to work on Christmas this year, too! And I know he hasn’t said anything, but it has to bother him that she’s not made it back to Japan for his birthday parties, too . . .”

Cain nodded vaguely but didn’t respond since he figured that his granddaughter’s conspicuous absence from the holiday festivities the last couple years had more to do with her desire to spend the special days with Griffin Marin than it did because of her work schedule. Damned if he’d tell Gin that, though.

“Do you suppose that she’d reconsider if I cried a little bit?”

Cain blinked, his mouth dropping open as he stopped dead in his tracks and stared at his mate. “Gin!” he chastised, wondering where she’d gotten a foul idea like that. “Don’t you think that’d be a little underhanded? And you shouldn’t make her feel bad if she really does have to be on call.”

Her expression clouded over and settled on a mulish sort of frown, and she crossed her arms over her chest but stubbornly held her ground. “It was just an idea,” she muttered, her hanyou ears flattening against her skull momentarily.

Shaking his head slowly, he slipped an arm around his mate’s waist and started toward the house once more. He stopped again, though, when he caught Griffin’s scent on the wind. He was outside, wasn’t he? Steering Gin to the side, he pulled her along toward the corner of the house. “We’ll ask, all right?” he offered, his tone gentler since she still seemed a little upset over his terse reprimand.

That seemed to pacify Gin, and she smiled up at him once more as he led the way around the house toward the back yard. “Oh, there he is!” she chimed, increasing her pace when she spotted the bear-youkai. Cain caught her hand before she could hurry over since it seemed like the man was talking to . . . someone . . . though there was no one else outside. “Cain, I—”

Cutting her off by lifting a finger to his lips, Cain shook his head quickly and waited. The wind was blowing in their faces, effectively preventing Marin from smelling them, and at the same time, it carried the sound of Griffin’s voice to them, too.

“W-w-w-will you marry . . . me?” he’d said.

Cain blinked in surprise. Gin’s mouth rounded in an ‘ _oh_ ’, and she stood stock still for a moment before tugging firmly on Cain’s forearm. “Did he just . . . ask that squirrel to . . . marry him . . .?” she whispered without taking her eyes off the youkai.

Cain had to press his lips tightly together to keep from barking out a very unwelcome laugh. “Yes,” he said, leaning down to murmur into his wife’s ear after clearing his throat, “I think he did.”

“Oh . . . my . . .” she replied slowly. She glanced at Cain and grinned. “Do you think she’ll say ‘yes’?”

He could feel his lips twitching, though to his credit, he managed not to laugh out loud. After taking another few seconds to compose himself completely, he cleared his throat very loudly and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

Griffin whipped around, his face blossoming in indignant color when he spotted the Zeligs standing near the corner of the house. “Afternoon, Griffin,” Cain said in a conversational tone.

The bear relaxed just a little though Cain would hardly call his stance ‘casual’. “H-hi,” he murmured. “I-Isabelle’s still sleeping.”

Gin stepped forward, extending the basket of freshly baked cookies she’d packed up especially for Griffin. “That’s okay,” she said brightly. “I wanted to drop these off . . . they’re pecan shortbread cookies. Bitty said you like them.”

He stared at her for a long moment before finally reaching out reluctantly to take the basket. “Uh, thanks.”

“We . . . were hoping to talk to you, actually,” Cain went on, drawing Griffin’s attention away from the gift. He could tell that the youkai was trying not to peek. He could also tell that Griffin was sniffing to ascertain whether or not Gin had spoken the truth. “It’s about Christmas.”

“Christmas?” Griffin echoed, grudgingly tearing his gaze off the basket. “It’s a little early for that, isn’t it?”

Cain shrugged. “Probably, but . . . we wanted to make sure that you knew that you’re welcome to spend the holiday with us. In fact, my daughter and her assmon— _Ow!_ ” Gin elbowed him in the ribs none-too-gently, and he snorted and made a face. He couldn’t help it, damn it. Old habits died hard, wasn’t that the saying? “. . . and Gin’s _brother_ will be flying in, too. It’d be a shame if Isabelle missed her parents, after all.”

True to form, Griffin looked like he was thinking about panicking. Cain shot him an easy grin. “Just think about it?”

Griffin nodded once, his jaw set in a stubborn sort of expression, and for a moment, Cain wondered if the youkai was trying to fabricate a reason why it just wasn’t going to be possible. He really ought to have known better, he supposed. “Y-you could probably wake her up now,” Griffin muttered, inclining his head in the direction of the house. “I mean, she . . . she might get upset if you don’t say hello while you’re here.”

Gin nodded and laughed as she pushed away from Cain and darted across the yard toward the porch. No sooner had she disappeared inside than Griffin delved into that basket and shoved a whole cookie into his mouth.

Cain cleared his throat and tried not to smile. “So, uh . . . you looked a little busy when we got here,” he remarked lightly.

Griffin choked on the cookie just a little and swallowed a few times to force it down. “Oh? Ah . . . n-no . . .”

“May I?” he asked, gesturing at the nondescript jeweler’s box clenched tightly in Griffin’s free hand.

Griffin’s expression shifted into alarm, and he jerked his head once despite the utter panic that flashed over his features.

Cain took his time examining the simple but elegant piece as a small smile quirked his lips. “That’s . . . a hell of a ring,” he finally said, quietly closing the box and extending it to Griffin.

Griffin took it and nodded, his cheeks a ruddy shade as he tried not to shuffle his feet. “I thought . . . she’d . . . she’d like . . . it . . . maybe . . .”

“I don’t think the ring will matter to her as much as the one giving it.”

Griffin winced. “. . . Yeah . . .”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“So how much did they hit you up for?”

Griffin glanced at Isabelle and dropped three boxes of candy in her lap without pausing as he headed for the sanctity of his recliner with the newspaper tucked carefully under his arm. “Good thing they weren’t selling encyclopedias or something,” he muttered.

She giggled and read the boxes: two peanut butter chocolate crumbles and one triple chocolate supreme mints. “You’re such a softie,” she commented much to his dismay. “Do you always buy stuff from the neighborhood kids?”

“Normally I just give them cash donations,” he said as he shook out the newspaper and buried his face from her view.

Curbing her desire to laugh outright since the implied meaning of his statement was clear enough, she set two of the boxes on the coffee table and proceeded to open the third one. “So you’re saying that you bought the candy for me,” she concluded as she popped a mint into her mouth.

“Not like you need it,” he informed her in his usual brusque tone.

“Hmm,” she drawled, taking a moment to savor the candy before she answered. “Are you going to be that much of a pushover for our pups?”

He sat stone still for nearly a minute before shaking the paper and clearing his throat. “I’m not a pushover,” he retorted.

“Sure, you are—all good fathers are.”

He snorted loudly and scrunched down a little further in the recliner. “Not going to happen,” he muttered in a voice barely above a whisper.

Her smile faded almost instantly, and she bit her lip as she cocked her head to the side to stare at him. Hidden as he was behind the newspaper, though, she couldn’t see his face to gauge whether or not he was being serious. “Oh? Why’s that?” she ventured, careful to keep her tone as neutral as she could manage.

“W-we’ve talked about this before, Jezebel,” he pointed out in a low rumble. “I told you then that it isn’t possible.”

Biting her lip, she tried to figure out exactly what he meant. Most of the time she knew when he was kidding, but now . . . Now, she just couldn’t tell.

“You . . . really don’t want pups?” she forced herself to ask as she let her gaze drop to the candy boxes on the coffee table. She could feel his eyes light on her though he didn’t move the newspaper. No, he was peering around it, wasn’t he? Forcing her expression to blank, she pressed her lips together in an effort to keep herself from giving anything away. She’d never stopped to think about it, had she? She’d always just assumed . . . assumed that children would come part and parcel with the deal, but . . .

Wincing despite her best efforts to the contrary, she blinked fast to stave back a sheen of suspect moisture that rose to glaze over her vision.

‘ _You can’t blame him, can you? Think about it: what happened to his family—to his sister . . . even if he doesn’t think he’s a monster any longer, that doesn’t mean that he feels any less responsible, and in the end, what can you possibly say that could convince him otherwise?_ ’

That was true, wasn’t it? It was absolutely possible, after all. As much as she believed that he was wonderful; truly deserving of everything life had to offer, Griffin . . . What he thought mattered so much more . . .

Griffin snorted loudly. “I’ve told you, Jezebel: no pups, ever.”

“I . . . see . . .” she managed to say. She even managed a weak little smile that she was far from feeling.

The newspaper rattled as Griffin ducked behind it once more. “Can’t have pups, anyway. Bears have _cubs_.”

It took a moment for the subtleties of his words to sink in, and even when they did, she still wasn’t entirely certain that she dared to understand what he’d said. It wasn’t that he was against the idea of having babies, was it? He was . . . arguing over the term she’d used . . .?

But he wasn’t done talking, either. “I’m the . . . the _dominant_ mate, so if we . . . i-if we had . . . those . . . they’d be cubs, like me.”

“. . . Cubs . . .” she echoed quietly, closing her eyes for just a moment as a rush of relief made her feel a little lightheaded. “Because you’re . . . _dominant_.”

He snorted loudly and shook the paper again. “Y-yes.”

Breaking into a brilliant smile, Isabelle blinked quickly to stave back unwelcome tears. With a strangled gasp, she shot off the sofa and across the room, smashing the newspaper against Griffin’s chest as she threw herself on him. Impatiently shoving the rumpled paper away from his face, she kissed him despite his half-hearted protests as she laughed, as she cried, as she left him completely baffled and breathless.

“What’s—wrong—with—you?” he demanded between kisses. Pushing her back far enough to scowl at her, he looked completely, adorably confused.

“I’ll bet our sons will be just gorgeous, like you,” she assured him with a watery smile.

His mouth fell open and his face turned red, and he looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out exactly what it might be. In the end, he pulled her against his chest, smashing her cheek against his shoulder with his hand firmly pressing against her forehead. “You . . . you’re completely bent, you know,” he muttered.

“Maybe,” she agreed, closing her eyes as she savored the complete and welcome comfort of Griffin’s heartbeat. “I’d love to have your babies,” she murmured softly.

Griffin sighed though it wasn’t an irritated sort of sound. No, it was more of a contented sort of exhalation than anything, and her smile widened. There really wasn’t any way that she could possibly love him more, was there?

As he stroked her hair with his infinitely gentle hands, she snuggled closer. No, she didn’t think that she could . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Griffin wasn’t surprised to hear the clock on the mantle in the living room chime the hour. The sound was soft, unobtrusive, dulled by the floor above.

‘ _Three a.m_.,’ he thought with a sigh. Gritting his teeth at the creeping sense of irritation that he’d been trying to ignore, he frowned at the silly caricature of a cat, lying on her back, swatting at a ball of yarn suspended over her head, he was carving—their cat, poised in the undignified fashion that tended to make Isabelle laugh hysterically.

Odd, really. He’d never noticed it before, had he? It hadn’t ever been an issue. True enough, he never had slept very well, and he couldn’t tolerate staying in one position that long. His body was just too damaged, and he’d always known that, too. He’d known, and yet . . .

And yet, it was frustrating, wasn’t it? All he wanted to do was to stay in bed with his mate, to savor the feeling of well-being that he was slowly growing accustomed to.

It felt like he was just spending his life, butting up against one obstacle or another, damn it.

‘ _Isn’t that what life’s about?_ ’

Heaving a sigh, Griffin grunted at the pragmatic tone in his youkai’s voice. He didn’t think it deserved an answer, though.

‘ _Oh, come on, Marin! Grow a thicker skin, won’t you? After all, you know as well as I do that the world is really not out to get you. Live and learn and be glad for the things that you have been given, right? Isn’t that what you’ve always thought?_ ’

‘ _Not always, no_ ,’ he growled, wincing as he passed the sculpture from his left hand to his right one. Stretching his fingers out, he heaved a sigh as his joints popped and cracked. The cold air of the changing season had tightened him up of late, making him feel just a little clumsier, a little more self-conscious.

Even then, every time he talked himself into being somewhat comfortable with his life in general, something else always seemed to rise up, didn’t it?

“ _Are you going to be that much of a pushover for our pups?_ ”

Good God, just why did that particular statement scare the hell out of him? To be frank, he’d never, ever considered the idea that he would have children, and sure, maybe it was the natural question, given the circumstances, but damn it . . .

Griffin snorted as he turned his attention back to the sculpture in his hand. If he could just get his fingers to stop shaking . . .

The question was entirely moot, wasn’t it? After all, he couldn’t even bring himself to ask the woman to marry him. Sure, she was his mate, and yes, she was pretty well stuck with him, and as far as he could tell, she seemed to be happy with that. She’d never actually said that she didn’t want to marry him, no, but then, she’d never actually said that she _did_ want to, either. Thing was, if he couldn’t get up the nerve to ask her that one simple question, then having babies was just completely out of the question, right? He’d be damned if his children would be born into a family where the mother and father were still two entirely separate entities. It just . . . well, it wasn’t right . . .

‘ _You’re just using that as an excuse, aren’t you?_ ’

‘ _What do you mean?_ ’

‘ _Be real, Griffin. Do you really think you can be a father? How can you when you barely remember your own?_ ’

‘ _I remember him well enough_ ,’ Griffin argued with a shake of his head. ‘ _I . . . I remember_ . . .’

‘ _So . . . you do want cubs_.’

A slow, reluctant smile quirked the corners of his lips, tempered only by the weight of the cautious hope that he wasn’t entirely certain he had a right to feel. A child? His child? His and . . . and Isabelle’s . . . a sweet little girl with her mother’s eyes, her mother’s laugh . . . A little girl with golden bronze hair and a soft little dimple in her cheek . . .

Carefully refreshing his grip on the intricate piece—he was going to give it to Isabelle for Christmas—his forehead furrowed in abject concentration. He was almost finished . . .

Scraping gently as he worked to give texture to the ball of yarn suspended over the cat’s head, Griffin grunted, biting down hard as a spasm shot through his hand. In the space of an instant, the precariously thin bit of wood that connected the ball of yarn and the cat’s paw broke—snapped in half in his palm.

Staring at the mangled bit of scrap, he heaved a sigh and slowly shook his head.

“So this is where you are.”

Sparing a moment to glance at Isabelle—wrapped up in a thick gray wool robe and looking entirely bleary-eyed and rumpled—as she stepped off the bottom step and wandered toward him.

Griffin pushed himself to his feet and shuffled over to the fireplace. “Why aren’t you still sleeping?” he asked, his tone gruff but not unfriendly.

Stifling a yawn with the back of her hand, she sidled up to him, slipping her arms around his waist and hugging him tightly. “I missed my teddy bear,” she admitted.

He snorted, clumsily putting his arms around her, too. “I couldn’t sleep,” he muttered.

“Hmm,” she drawled, her eyes closed, and for a moment, he wondered if she were going to fall asleep standing up. “Is your back bothering you again?”

“Uh, no,” he admitted then shook his head. It wasn’t entirely a lie, after all. It wasn’t his back. It was his hip, damn it . . .

She gasped when he adjusted his hold on her, and she craned her head to peer over her shoulder at the suspect lump that was smashed into her back. “What’s . . .? Aww,” she breathed as she gently pulled the broken sculpture out of his hand. “Your hands are bothering you again, aren’t they?”

He shrugged in what he hoped was an offhanded manner, taking the bits of wood and chucking them into the roaring flames. “It’s not a big deal.”

She watched him as he turned away and moved back toward the sofa. He could feel her gaze on him even if he were too stubborn to verify it. Taking his time selecting a small block of wood from the box under the end table, he heard her footsteps padding closer.

“You know,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically soft, reluctant, “my father . . . maybe he could help you.”

His head snapped to the side to stare at her, his features contorting into a thoughtful scowl. She was looking the other way, her cheeks tinged with rosy color, as though she wasn’t entirely certain that she ought to be suggesting anything of the sort to him. “What do you . . .?”

Clearing her throat, though, she plunged on, “Not that I think there’s anything wrong with you, because I don’t, but . . . but some of your scar tissue is affecting your mobility and circulation . . . that’s just not good for you, you know!”

He swallowed hard and glanced over his shoulder at the fire, like he could make out the now charring wood that he’d just thrown into it. But it was more than that, wasn’t it? More than just a broken carving . . . “Isabelle . . .”

“I know what you’re going to say,” she interrupted as she finally looked at him, offering him a very contrite little grin. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I’m just . . . giving you options. It’s entirely up to you if you want to talk to Papa about it.”

He didn’t answer one way or another, but he did nod once to indicate that he’d heard her, that he’d think about it. She seemed satisfied enough with that, and her smile that rewarded him was brilliant. Bracing himself on his knees, he pushed himself to his feet without bothering to select a new block of wood. “Y-you should go back to bed,” he mumbled. “You’re still tired.”

“Will you come upstairs? Just for a little while?”

Griffin nodded, knowing that she wasn’t asking him to come to bed with her. No, she was just asking that he sit with her until she went to sleep, and for some reason, her acute understanding . . . why did it irritate him even more? “I have to bank the fire,” he told her.

She nodded and leaned up to kiss his cheek. He watched in silence as she headed up the stairs once more.

He sighed, stepping toward the hearth once more to bank the fire for the night.

“ _My father . . . maybe he could help you_ . . .”

Griffin scowled. Kichiro Izayoi—the genius surgeon . . . Even if he could help, did Griffin really have the right to ask? His scars . . . people had paid for them with their lives, hadn’t they? Did he honestly have the right to ask for any kind of relief?

His sister . . . his parents . . . Daniella Cavendish . . . and even Sebastian Cavendish . . . They couldn’t ask to be ‘fixed’, could they? And yet Griffin . . . he’d lived, and wasn’t that enough of a reprieve for the likes of him?

Letting out a deep breath—more of a sigh than an exhalation—Griffin stood before the muted flames and pulled the velvet ring box from his pocket. The fabric was wearing thin on the edges of the box since he’d been carrying it nonstop since the day he’d purchased it.

A familiar sense of disgust rose up in him, and he grimaced. What he needed to do was stop thinking about everything at once and concentrate on one thing at a time, right? That meant the most important thing at present was forcing himself to ask Isabelle the question that had been on the tip of his tongue for the last few weeks . . .

Grasping the ring box tightly in his hand, he stomped toward the staircase. He was going to ask her tonight, damn it. He was going to ask her right now . . .

A fierce determination goaded him forward, up the steps, through the house, down the hallway. Striding into the bedroom they shared, he opened his mouth to blurt out the question, only to stop short at the vision that greeted him.

She had gone back to bed, of course. Curled on her side with her hand resting atop her pillow, her hair cascading around her, shining like molten gold, she was sleeping, which really shouldn’t have surprised him, given that it was three in the morning. She hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep the night before. She’d met with Cain Zelig’s generals to brief them on the progress of the research, and she’d been too nervous to sleep well . . .

Still, Griffin couldn’t help the new dose of irritation that choked him. Here he was, determined to ask her the question that he’d been trying to give voice to for weeks, and . . . and she was thwarting him yet again, never mind that she had no idea that she was doing it, in the first place.

Well, that just figured, didn’t it? A day late and a dollar short—the story of his life . . .

Stomping around the bed, he pulled the drawer in his nightstand open and started to drop the box in, then stopped. Maybe . . .

With a frown, he opened the box and carefully pulled out the ring, taking a moment to look it over with a critical eye before he sank down on the edge of the bed. If he could get the image into his head . . . what her hand looked like with the ring on her finger . . . maybe that would be enough to bolster his courage enough to ask the question later . . .

Before he could talk himself out of it, he gritted his teeth and slipped the ring onto her finger then leaned back and narrowed his gaze to get a good look at it. The delicate band shimmered, the diamond caught the ambient light of the small lamp that she’d left lit on her side of the bed. The platinum ring fit her just fine, and Griffin couldn’t help the soft chuckle that slipped from him as he swallowed hard to dislodge the suspect lump that had risen to choke him.

It looked perfect, didn’t it?

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, staring at the ring on her slender finger. Finally, though, he sighed, reaching out to pull the ring off her, satisfied that he’d done a good job of memorizing the way it had looked—the way it _would_ look, just as soon as he gathered his wits enough to pop the question, that was . . .

Jerking his hand back when she uttered a small sound and balled her hand into a tight fist, Griffin scowled. She never did make things easy for him, did she? He tried again, but gave up when she started to shift around, though she didn’t wake up.

‘ _Well_ . . .’

His youkai snorted. ‘ _You have to do something, right? You can’t just leave it there_ . . .’

Rolling his eyes, he started to reach out again. ‘ _I know that, damn it! I wasn’t planning on just—Why can’t I?_ ’

‘ _Why can’t you, what?_ ’

‘ _Just leave it there._ ’

‘ _Wh—No! No, no, no, no, a thousand times, no!_ ’

‘ _Well, she won’t let me take it_ ,’ he reasoned.

‘ _You can’t do that! That’s just . . . you have to_ ask _her!_ ’

‘ _I . . . I tried! I’ve tried and tried, and she_ —’

‘ _Then wake her up! You can’t just slap that on her and . . . and what? Wait for her to figure it out?_ ’

An oddly stubborn resolve settled over Griffin’s features as he sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘ _Why not?_ ’

His youkai groaned, loud and long. ‘ _You . . . you’ve_ got _to be kidding me_ . . .’

Rolling his eyes, he stood up long enough to push back the covers and climb in beside her. As if she sensed him near, she shifted toward him, cuddling against his shoulder as he slipped his arms around her, and she still didn’t stir.

Clasping her hand in his, he lifted it just enough to inspect the ring on her finger, ignoring the aspersions that his youkai was still casting.

So in an effort to placate the annoying voice, he sighed softly and stole a glance at her sleeping face. “I-Isabelle,” he said in a tone just barely above a whisper. “W . . . will you . . . marry . . . me?”

She didn’t answer, and he hadn’t expected that she would. Rolling his eyes, he jostled his shoulder in a pathetic effort to rouse her. Her head nodded slightly from the disturbance though she didn’t wake, and Griffin grunted. ‘ _Th . . . there_ ,’ he pointed out, cutting off his youkai in mid-diatribe. ‘ _I asked . . . she nodded . . . Good enough_.’

‘ _That was—She didn’t—You can’t_ —That doesn’t count!’

Griffin chuckled inwardly as his eyes drifted closed. ‘ _It counts_ ,’ he thought as he pulled Isabelle just a little closer . . . ‘ _It . . . counts_ . . .’

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final_** **_Thought_** **_from Griffin’s Youkai_** :  
> … _That_ so _does_ _not_ _count_ …


	74. Business as Usual

Isabelle yawned and arched her back to stretch before she opened her eyes and smiled. The room was empty, not that it surprised her, but she could hear movements in the distance and knew without glancing at the clock that Griffin hadn’t yet left for work.

‘ _So get up and go greet your mate, Bitty_ ,’ her youkai voice remarked rather dryly.

‘ _Hmm, I think I will!_ ’

Tossing the blankets back, she paused for a moment as another wide yawn garnered her full attention, and when she opened her eyes, she smiled as Griffin stepped into the room. “Ah, just the man I was hoping to see,” she teased.

His scowl only made her laugh, and she reached out, wiggling her fingers when he held up a steaming mug of coffee. “Y-you sleep . . . all right?” he asked, his eyes shifting around the room in a nervous sort of way.

Isabelle wrapped her hands around the mug and breathed in deep, savoring the scent of the freshly brewed beverage. “Mhmm,” she intoned, sipping the coffee with her eyes closed and a dreamy smile on her face. “Thank you.”

He grunted tersely and fidgeted around like he was running late. ‘ _Waiting for his morning kiss_ ,’ she thought with a secretive little smile that he didn’t see. “So . . . what are the odds I could convince you to stay home with me today?” she drawled.

“I’d rather be there,” he muttered, and she didn’t have to look to know that he was blushing.

With a very pronounced snort, he tapped his foot impatiently and crossed his arms over his chest. “You, uh . . . n-n-notice anything? A-anything at all?”

“I noticed that my bed was empty when I woke up,” she pouted.

With a roll of his eyes, he shook his head, sending his shaggy hair that he’d carefully combed back cascading down into his face. “Anything _else?_ ”

She smiled. “I noticed that you get sexier every single time I look at you,” she quipped.

He heaved a sigh and shook his head as he turned away to leave, though not before she could make out the tell-tale tinge of what promised to be a quite livid blush creeping over his features. “Never mind,” he muttered, shaking his head as he stomped toward the door.

Isabelle thumped the cup of coffee aside, sloshing the liquid up over the side as she tossed the blankets aside and scooted off the bed. “Where’s my morning kiss?” she complained as she hurried after Griffin.

He snorted loudly but didn’t break his stride as he moved through the house toward the foyer. “Forget it, Jezebel. I’m on to you,” he muttered, jabbing his left foot into his shoe.

“Hmm,” she pouted, crossing her arms and leaning against the frame of the doorway as she tried not to smile. “But—”

“No ‘buts’,” he interrupted with a firm shake of his head. “I’m late.”

She rolled her eyes, the smile she’d been fighting slipping out of her despite her efforts otherwise. “You’re not late, Griffin Marin,” she chided. “You’re never late.”

“I am this time,” he grumbled, shaking his head stubbornly as he jerked open the door, adjusting his grip on his attaché case. “Stay out of trouble.”

She hurried to him and brushed a chaste kiss over his cheek before stepping back and watching him go. The smile that she’d been wearing since she’d opened her eyes faded. Something was bothering him, wasn’t it? She just wasn’t sure what that could possibly be.

‘ _Think about it, Bitty_ ,’ her youkai voice chimed in as she stood in the open doorway and watched Griffin walk away. ‘ _Why did he ask you if you’d noticed anything?_ ’

Isabelle frowned as she pushed the front door closed and turned the deadbolt out of habit. After Alastair Gregory’s unceremonious appearance, Griffin had insisted that she keep the door locked whenever he wasn’t home, and since the memory of that awful day was far too vivid in her mind, she felt compelled to oblige.

So just what was it that he wanted her to notice, anyway?

Shuffling through the house, she frowned as she took her time, looking around at all the familiar surroundings, trying to discern any sort of change that might have prompted Griffin’s odd question but seeing nothing different at all.

Even the bedroom was exactly the same. Odd, wasn’t it? Nothing had changed, had it?

“What am I missing, Charlie?” she murmured as she took her time shaking out the blankets and making the bed.

The dog lifted his head off his paws and cocked his head to the side, as though he were pondering Isabelle’s question. After a moment, he gave a low whine and thumped his tail against the floor. The movement caught the half-drowsing cat’s eye, and she reached out a lazy paw in a token attempt to swat at it.

Isabelle couldn’t help the soft giggle that escaped her as she slowly shook her head. As much as Griffin liked to complain about the animals, he was the one who had stopped on his way home one afternoon to purchase the large plaid dog bed and matching pillow for the cat, and he was the one who had arranged both in the corner of their bedroom, too . . .

With a sigh and a shake of her head, Isabelle picked up the coffee mug off the nightstand and padded toward the doorway. She needed a refill, but before she got that, she needed to clean up the drops of coffee that had sloshed out of the cup in her haste to run after Griffin.

“ _You, uh . . . n-n-notice anything? A-anything at all?_ ”

“Notice anything, huh . . .?” she muttered to herself as she dug a clean dish cloth out of the drawer beside the sink and flicked on the tap with her free hand. “Notice . . . _what . . .?_ ”

Shoving the cloth under the water, Isabelle blinked and stopped, her eyes flaring wide as the cloth dropped from her fingers with a dull, wet, squishy sound. Her gasp was louder than the flow of water, and her hand was shaking as she slowly lifted it, splaying her fingers as she gaped, drop-mouthed, at the glistening ring on her finger.

“Kami . . .” she breathed, her brain slowing to a crawl as she shook her head and tried to make sense of it. “It’s a . . .?”

‘ _Go ahead_ ,’ her youkai prompted gently. ‘ _Say it_ . . .’

But she couldn’t. Staring at the brilliant platinum circlet with the insular diamond that winked at her in the light of the sun shining through the window, she could only stare, hardly daring to believe exactly what it meant. “Oh . . .”

‘ _It’s an engagement ring, Bitty_.’

‘ _Well, it . . . but . . . but he didn’t . . . ask me_ . . .’

Her youkai sighed. ‘ _Isabelle . . . Griffin’s not good with words, and you know it. Maybe . . . maybe he is asking—in his own way_.’

Biting her lip, she smiled. How often over the past few weeks had he acted like he wanted to say something, and at the time, she hadn’t noticed? Now she did, of course. How many times had he started to ask her questions only to end up blurting out something completely arbitrary and almost silly? Had he really been trying that hard to ask her to marry him . . .?

Her smile faltered but didn’t disappear as a sheen of moisture blurred her vision, as she clasped her hands and cradled the ring against her heart. That was exactly what he’d been trying to do, wasn’t it? He’d tried so hard, and in the end, he’d done it the only way he’d known how . . .

‘ _The thing is, he deserves an answer, don’t you think?_ ’

‘ _As if he doesn’t know that I’ll say yes!_ ’ she scoffed, her grin widening as she held out her hand to examine the gorgeous ring once more.

‘ _Even still, you need to tell him, don’t you? And the sooner, the better, I say!_ ’

Leaning against the counter, Isabelle considered her youkai’s advice. ‘ _The sooner the better, huh . . .?_ ’

‘ _Yes_ ,’ she decided with a little laugh. ‘ _I think that’s an absolutely fabulous idea_ . . .’

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“There are marked differences between the two dialects that might seem insignificant but impact the overall meaning of some key phrases, so a rudimentary understanding of those variances is important, especially when . . .”

Trailing off when the door in the back of the lecture hall clicked closed, Griffin frowned. The person who had slipped in wasn’t causing trouble, exactly, but the brush of an entirely too familiar youki stopped him dead as his chin snapped up, as he located her in a matter of moments. Settling unobtrusively in a vacant chair in the back of the hall beside a young man who couldn’t quite seem to keep his eyes off her, Isabelle didn’t look at Griffin, opting instead to lean toward the student and whispering something that was lost in the span of space between them.

The rest of the class, though, noticed Griffin’s pause, and as a result, a number of them turned to look, trying to see what, exactly, had interrupted the lecture. Clearing his throat, Griffin struggled to regain his composure, fought to remember what he’d been talking about just moments before. Why was it that Isabelle could have that great of an effect on him? And just why the hell was she there, anyway . . .?

‘ _Maybe she noticed the ring_ ,’ his youkai voice piped up.

The reminder was enough to draw a livid flush from him, and he snorted inwardly. ‘ _Hardly. The world could collapse around her, and she’d be the last one to notice_.’

‘ _You’re just sore because she didn’t notice it before you left for work. Need I remind you that I told you it was a bad idea? You should have just swallowed your pride and did things the old fashioned way, you know_.’

‘ _Shut up_ ,’ Griffin growled, unconsciously adjusting the collar of the nondescript light blue button down shirt he’d picked out this morning. It felt a little tight—something that he’d never noticed before.

Licking his lips, he tried to force his attention off Isabelle and what she was doing. Hunched over, her right shoulder was moving in such a way that he knew she was writing something. The student beside her was making no bones about watching her, and, rolling his eyes, Griffin cleared his throat again and knocked on the podium in a vain effort to regain a semblance of order. “A rudimentary understanding of those variances is of utmost importance when one seeks to translate the ancient texts since one phrase can drastically alter . . .”

He stopped abruptly when Isabelle finally looked up, a radiant smile on her face. She winked at him and held up a paper with one word written on it—one word that took up the whole page, and she mouthed that word as he blinked and flushed and slowly shook his head.

‘ _Yes_ ,’ she’d said—she’d written. Yes . . .?

A choking sort of sound escaped him as he stared at that bit of paper. She shook it to emphasize her point, a peal of her soft laughter reaching him, soothing the edges of his acute embarrassment in the same gentle way that she accomplished anything in her life, and for the briefest of moments, he couldn’t help but smile just a little before the harsher reality of the situation intruded once more. Everyone in the lecture hall was staring, either at her or worse, at him.

“C-Class dismissed,” he rasped out in a voice that didn’t sound at all like himself.

The students were slow to react. As though they didn’t quite trust his abrupt dismissal, they hesitated, whispering to each other as they lingered in gathering their things together. It seemed like it took forever for them to shoulder their bags, to file out of the hall. He didn’t miss the numerous glances, the questioning looks that were surreptitiously cast his way. Isabelle sat back in her seat, a demure if not completely magnificent smile illuminating her gaze—her very being.

It wasn’t until the last of the students filed out of the room that she made to stand up, smoothing the light tan, ankle length crushed cotton peasant skirt that flicked out in a flirt of motion with every step she took. “Did I ever tell you how fucking hot I always thought you were while you stood up there and gave your lectures?” she asked, her voice resounding in his ears like thunder despite her quiet tone of voice.

Griffin blushed but shook his head, mesmerized by the very sight of her as she slowly, slowly wandered down the raised platforms, her fingertips trailing lightly over the seats and bench tables.

She laughed. “Why do you think I minored in ancient linguistics, Dr. Marin?” she teased, her words punctuated with a throaty laugh. “I’d have read the back of a cereal box if you’d told me to, you know.”

“N-Not very interesting,” he mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest as she clasped her left hand in her right one and stared at the ring he’d put on her finger in the night. “I-I guess you . . . you found it.”

“Oh, I did,” she agreed, stepping off the lowest platform and continuing to sashay toward him. “Does this mean you want to marry me?” she went on, her eyebrows disappearing under the thick cover of bangs that surrounded her face.

Griffin cleared his throat, shuffling his feet in a nervous affectation that he couldn’t quite control. “Well . . . I figured . . . if I’m going to be a martyr, I might as well . . .”

She laughed again as she stopped before him, her eyes dancing with a suspect brightness that he didn’t dare lend credence to. Her lips were trembling despite the smile that still graced her features, and it only widened with the first tear that slipped from the corner of her eye, trailing a painfully slow course down the unmarred smoothness of her cheek, and his gaze skittered to the side. Unable to look at her—unable to bear it if she were to see just how frightened he really was deep down, he stared at the ceiling, at the wall—at the cold marble floor beneath his feet—anywhere as long as he didn’t have to look at her . . . “I love you; did you know?” she whispered, her words cracked and broken by the conflicting emotion.

“Uh . . . I-Isa . . . belle . . .” he replied with a shake of his head. It didn’t make sense, did it? Tears . . .? He could smell them, damn it, and even if he couldn’t, his youki was so attuned to hers, he’d have known, anyway. She . . . she wasn’t supposed to _cry_ . . . Turning his face away, gritting his teeth, he couldn’t help the slight grimace that flickered over his features before he could school them to blankness. “For-for-forget it,” he stammered. “It was a . . . a dumb idea . . . That damn Attean . . . He said . . . Never mind . . .”

“You’d better marry me quick, Griffin Marin,” she interrupted as she slipped her arms around his waist, burying her face against his chest. “I’ve been waiting for you long enough.”

‘ _She . . . she just . . . she really . . .?_ ’

With a sudden bark of laughter, she leaned up, kissing his face a hundred times, giggling quietly as she snuggled ever-closer. With a longsuffering sigh designed to let her know just how put out he was over the entire debacle, he slipped his arms around her and stood still, letting her shower him with affection, even if he never would quite understand why she felt the way she did. A slow sense of relief ebbed through him, leaving him feeling a little weak in the knees, and while he didn’t quite dare to lend words to the thoughts that were tumbling around in his head, he couldn’t help but feel as though Isabelle really could fix anything . . .

Turning her head slightly, she tugged him down, her eyes fluttering closed as she pressed her lips against his. All it took was that one connection to set off a chain reaction that shot through him with a voracious abandon. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard a voice telling him that what they were doing was entirely inappropriate, given that he was still in the middle of the lecture hall, and yet it didn’t seem to matter, either.

Beautiful, she was, and she always had been. From the day she’d walked into his life with her jewel-like eyes and ready smile that she had no qualms about sharing with everyone and everything around her, he’d been caught, hadn’t he, like a moth to a flame, and maybe he’d spent far too long fighting every single emotion that could have been considered good or pure that he simply didn’t have anything left to resist her.

There was nothing ugly or tainted about the emotions now. Swirling like a living thing, calling out to him in a voice so clear, so welcoming that he simply couldn’t fight it, he shivered when her fingers sank into his hair, shuddered when her lips opened to his, as their kiss deepened, blossomed, swelled . . .

Even the sound of rather pointed throat clearing took a moment to make sense in Griffin’s mind. When it did, though, he gasped, jerking upright as his gaze flew over Isabelle’s head to lock with another of the university’s professors, who was standing just inside the door looking entirely uncomfortable.

“D-Dr. Marin, uh . . . could I have a word with you . . .?” Mike Jenkins asked, jerking his head to indicate that he’d like to have that word outside.

“Uh, oh . . . err, y-yeah,” Griffin stammered, carefully pushing Isabelle’s hands aside. To her credit, she didn’t seem to realize that someone had come in, and he shook his head, unable to keep the telling blush off his features as he stepped back and licked his lips. “You stay here,” he instructed in a quiet aside.

Isabelle blinked, having finally noticed Professor Jenkins, and to Griffin’s dismay, she wiggled her fingers in a jaunty ‘hello’ then pushed herself onto the plain table that had been set up beside the podium.

Closing his eyes as he heaved an inward sigh, Griffin followed Jenkins into the hallway, taking his time in pulling the door closed before he slowly turned to face the professor.

“Um, Griffin . . .” Jenkins began, looking as uncomfortable as Griffin felt, given the situation. “Far be it for me to . . . criticize or to, um, p-pry into your personal affairs, you do know, right? There’s, uh, shall we say, a code of ethics that we, as professors, are responsible to uphold.”

“Yes?” Griffin replied with a shake of his head since he wasn’t entirely sure what Jenkins was implying.

The smaller man’s face reddened significantly. “That is to say, we aren’t allowed to . . . fraternize . . . with the students, you see?”

“Fra . . .?” Griffin began, but trailed off.

Jenkins looked even more distressed. “I really don’t want to turn you in, but I-I-I—”

“Oh, I’m not a student,” Isabelle said from behind them. Griffin grimaced. He hadn’t heard her follow. “I’m his fiancée—Dr. Isabelle Izayoi . . . and while I used to be one of Griffin’s students years ago, I can assure you that I’m not one now.”

The perplexed look on Jenkin’s face faltered then suddenly exploded as his eyes widened, all the color draining out of his face in an instant only to shoot right back to the surface as he somewhat limply took the hand that Isabelle had offered and shook it. “I’m so sorry!” he blurted, taking a step back in retreat as he crossed his arms over his chest in a decidedly nervous sort of way. “I didn’t know . . . D-dr. Marin, I apologize!”

Isabelle giggled as the professor muddled through the rest of his apology. “What a sweet little man,” she mused as she watched Jenkins make a hasty retreat.

Griffin snorted. “Shouldn’t you . . . be at work . . .?”

She laughed and ran up beside him as he strode down the hallway toward his office. “Nope . . . I’m off today.”

“Y-You’re not allowed to come here,” he remarked though his tone lacked any real censure.

“Hmm, well, since you’re off now, too, I thought that we could set a date today.”

He grunted, ignoring her statement as he scooped together the papers that he was going to take home to look over, concentrating instead on getting her out of the building before she ruined his credibility entirely. The sound of the lock snapping closed, however, got his attention quickly enough, and when he looked up, he couldn’t help the small groan that slipped out of him at the absolutely devilish light glowing in her gaze.

Leaning against the closed door, she was, and she made no bones about letting her gaze travel up and down his body, leaving little to the imagination, at least in his mind, as to what, exactly, she was thinking.

“Isabelle, unlock that door,” he demanded, praying that his voice hadn’t faltered nearly as much as he was afraid that it had.

She laughed and slowly shook her head, pushing herself away from the door as she fluidly, meticulously worked the buttons of her blouse. “I don’t think so,” she said, her voice dropping to a throaty purr. “You’re mine now, you know, and I . . . well . . . I’m yours . . .”

He opened his mouth but the argument that had started to form dissipated too quickly. ‘ _One day_ . . .’ he thought rather absently as she let the blouse drop onto the floor. One day he would learn how to say ‘no’ to her and mean it.

He gasped, his eyes drifting closed as she pressed her body against his, as she reached down to stroke him through the rough fabric of his slacks, unable to ignore the absolute desire that coursed through him.

One day, maybe . . . just not today . . .

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final_** **_Thought_** **_from_** **_Isabelle_** :  
>  _Would that make me Mrs. Teddy Bear …?_


	75. Cold Feet

“So you’re out here, are you? You’re not hiding, right?”

Griffin started and whipped his head to the side just in time to see Ben Philips step out of the mansion.

“Uh, no,” he replied. “Just getting some air . . .”

“Christmas with the Zeligs’ is a little . . . daunting, I suppose,” he went on in a conversational tone as he stopped beside him, staring out over the land in much the same way as Griffin had been doing before Ben had come outside. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Will I?” Griffin replied, only half-joking.

Ben chuckled, digging one hand into his pocket and brushing the bangs off his face with the other. “From what I gathered, you’ll be around quite a while, won’t you?”

Griffin didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure what he should say. Something about Ben was a little . . . Griffin frowned. Ben wasn’t exactly intimidating, per se, no, but there really was something . . . almost regal about the man’s bearing that was undeniable. Turning around and leaning against the high stone banister that surrounded the porch, Griffin frowned at the sight of the family inside the mansion. Gathered around the huge Christmas tree in the center of the living room, it seemed like the youngest of Zelig’s sons must have done something to irritate his elder brother since Bas was currently busy stalking the younger, and Griffin shook his head. “Was that one dropped on his head when he was a baby?” he ventured, nodding toward the merriment inside.

Ben turned and chuckled. “I don’t think so,” he allowed at length though his smile didn’t dissipate. “He’s always been a little . . . different.”

Griffin snorted at Ben’s choice of words. “Different, huh?” he echoed with a shake of his head. “Seems a little demented, if you ask me.”

Ben opened his mouth to respond then snapped it closed and sighed, offering Griffin a somewhat sheepish grin. “That, too,” he agreed with a laugh. “Sometimes I think that Zelig might have been more like his younger than his elder son if things had been different . . .”

“God forbid.”

Ben nodded. “I’ve thought that, too.”

The two fell silent for a moment, and Griffin had a feeling that there was something that Ben wanted to say.

“Griffin . . .” he began but trailed off.

“Yeah?”

Ben rubbed his chin in a thoughtful sort of way, deliberately turning his attention to the picturesque view of the ocean instead. “Zelig mentioned something to me . . .”

“What’s that?”

“Well,” he replied slowly, as though he had to measure his words carefully. “One of Zelig’s generals has mentioned that he thinks he might retire soon.”

“I’m sure he’ll find someone,” Griffin muttered, wondering vaguely where Ben was going with it.

Ben nodded. “He’s thought of someone,” Ben went on. “Thing is, he’s worried that if he were to ask, the man in question might feel . . . obligated to accept just because of who Zelig is.”

“That seems a little irrational,” Griffin said. “I mean, who in their right mind would accept something like that just because Zelig asked him to do it?”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Ben commented with a grin. “You see, Zelig wants you.”

Griffin’s head snapped to the side as his momentary surprise melted into a much darker expression. “M . . . me?”

“Yes, and if you want my opinion, I think you’d do a damn fine job.”

Griffin snorted indelicately. He couldn’t help it. How ironic was it that he’d spent the better part of his existence trying to hide, and now . . .? “I don’t think so,” he replied quietly. “I just . . . I just want to have a quiet life.”

Ben chuckled. “I didn’t figure you’d accept,” he admitted. “Zelig wanted me to ask, though.”

“He could have asked me,” Griffin muttered.

Ben nodded. “He could have,” he agreed. “As I’ve said: he didn’t want you to feel like you had to do it, though.”

“I’m not cut out to be a general,” Griffin said, turning around and hunching forward, resting his forearms on the snow-covered railing.

“Yeah,” Ben replied, mirroring Griffin’s stance, his eyes following the same trail. “Just like Zelig was never cut out to be tai-youkai . . . Sometimes, though, I can’t help but think maybe that’s the reason why he’s a damn good one.”

“I always thought he was fair,” Griffin pointed out almost stiffly.

Ben nodded again. “He is, to a fault.” He chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong. Zelig’s one of the best men I’ve ever known, and his son will be a damn fine tai-youkai, too. The difference is that Zelig is tai-youkai because he has to be. Sebastian . . . he’ll be a damn fine tai-youkai because he wants to be.”

“You telling me that Zelig’s going to hand it over?”

Ben shrugged then sighed, lifting his gaze upward as his condensed breath thinned and dissolved. “Maybe. Over two hundred years is a long time to carry that sort of burden if it isn’t something that you want.”

Griffin digested that for a moment, seeing a lot of truth in what the panther-youkai was saying. “And you?”

Ben’s smile turned enigmatic. “And I . . . I have nothing better to do at the moment.”

“That’s . . . almost disappointing,” Griffin muttered, shaking his head despite the slight smile that had formed on his features.

Ben laughed—a deep, throaty sound. “Yes, well, the truth is rarely as poetic as it should be, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.”

“Anyway,” Ben said, straightening up and clapping Griffin on the shoulder. “Think about it. Who knows? You might change your mind.”

Griffin didn’t think that’d happen, but he nodded just the same. ‘ _Me? A general?_ ’ he scoffed as the sound of the sliding door followed Ben’s departure. ‘ _Yeah . . . when hell freezes over_ . . .’

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“So, Dad . . . do you suppose you ought to stop them?”

Cain Zelig spared a moment to cast his eldest son a speculative glance before turning his attention back to the hanyou woman and the bear youkai sitting on the sofa, separated by Cain’s granddaughter, Samantha, and deep in conversation. “It hasn’t gotten _too_ bad . . . yet . . .” Cain ventured.

Bas snorted and rolled his eyes. “She asked him . . . how big _it_ is . . .” he reminded his father.

Cain chuckled. “So she did.”

Bas sighed and shook his head, reasonably reassured that his father really was just as demented as his younger brother, Evan, though maybe in a more understated sort of way.

And that was exactly how that particular conversation had started. Never mind that Gin knew what she was talking about. Having been immersed in a discussion of just how large Griffin Marin’s youkai form was likely to be, Gin had gotten it into her head that she wanted to see it, and in true Gin form, she’d marched directly over to the man and asked him, point blank, “So how big _is_ it?”

What was worse was that Griffin didn’t seem to get the implications of that particular question, either, and while it was obvious that he wasn’t sure what Gin was talking about, it was also obvious that he hadn’t automatically thought of anything untoward, either.

“You know, right? Nothing good can come of this,” Bas remarked dryly.

“Hush,” Cain barked with a shake of his head. “I’m trying to listen.”

“I got to see Cain’s once,” Gin was saying in a completely earnest way. “It was really big—huge . . . Just what you’d expect from the North American tai-youkai, I suppose. Did you ever see his father? Was he really big, too?”

Griffin shook his head slowly. “No, I, uh . . . I never saw that . . .”

Bas bit his lip. Hard.

“But I’ll bet he was really impressive, too, wouldn’t you say? I mean, he had to be. Strictly speaking, something like that would have to be inherent, right? So if Cain was big, then his father had to be, too! You know, my father said that my grandfather—I never met him—was enormous!”

Isabelle smiled as she settled onto the sofa on the other side of her mate. “Bigger than a breadbox, Grandma?” she quipped seconds before she kissed her mate’s cheek, which, in turn, drew out a rather vivid flush.

Gin giggled. “I should hope so!” she replied. “He was the Inu no Taisho, after all! I wish I could have seen him just once!”

Griffin shot a quick glance at Isabelle and shrugged. “Well, I doubt I’m bigger than your, uh, mate,” he told Gin. “Besides, size doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“Oh, no!” Gin insisted, laying a hand on Griffin’s forearm. “It doesn’t matter, but you have to admit: the bigger you are, the more impressive you look.”

Bas bit down harder.

“Oh . . . _wow_ . . .” Cain breathed, covering his mouth with his hand.

“Now, Grandma, I assure you: Griffin is very, very impressive.”

“Is he? You’ve seen him?”

Personally, Bas had to wonder how Isabelle was able to keep a straight face, given the current topic. “I see him all the time,” she replied pleasantly.

“You know, I gotta say, I bet I’m more impressive than any of them,” Evan Zelig commented as he scooped his mother off the sofa and sat down with her in his lap.

Cain sighed. Bas groaned. The jig was up, or so it would seem.

Gin kissed her son’s cheek and snuggled against his shoulder. “You can’t transform, sweetie,” she reminded him.

Evan shot her a lazy grin—one that Bas was certain had gotten his brother into more than his fair share of trouble over the years. “You’re talkin’ ‘bout transforming? Hell, and here I thought you were talking about penises.”

It was Bas’ turn to sigh. He’d figured that Evan would say something like that. Cain, the miscreant, chuckled, and with an entirely smug sort of grin, he wandered across the room to retrieve his mate. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times: don’t say ‘penis’ in front of your mother,” Cain said, taking a token swing at Evan’s head. Evan ducked out of the way as his cheesy grin widened. “It makes her uncomfortable.”

“Sorry, Mama,” Evan said in a completely insincere tone of voice as he tightened his arms around her simply to thwart his father, no doubt. “Would it be better if I said ‘weenie’? ‘Winkie’? ‘Pi-chan’?”

Gin’s giggling escalated as she buried her face against Evan’s shoulder, her face as red as the Christmas sweater she was wearing. “We weren’t talking about . . . _that!_ ” Gin insisted, her voice muffled by Evan’s body.

“Whose ‘pi-chan’ are we discussing?” Kichiro asked as he wandered into the living room from the kitchen.

“No one’s,” Cain remarked mildly.

“Mama wants to see Griffin’s,” Evan replied.

Griffin might not have gotten the first part of the conversation, but judging from the look on his face at the moment, he certainly got the rest of it. Standing so abruptly that he bumped into the coffee table, he grimaced when the crystal vase in the center of the table wobbled. Cain grabbed it and steadied it, and with a mumbled apology, Griffin hurried out of the room as quickly as he could.

Bas sighed. To be honest, he couldn’t blame the bear, not at all.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Isabelle followed Griffin into the kitchen—blessedly empty since almost everyone had returned to the living room. “My family loves you, you know?” she remarked quietly, leaning against the side of the hulking refrigerator as she watched Griffin down a glass of water.

Griffin snorted and refilled the glass from the tap. “They’re all just as messed up as you are,” he replied without glancing at her.

“Maybe,” she agreed. “I’m glad you wanted to come with me today.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

Isabelle shrugged and pushed herself away from the refrigerator. “No . . . but I’m still glad that you did.”

“Christmas should be spent with family,” she went on. “I suppose that we’ll stay home after we have babies of our own, but for now, it’s nice to see everyone . . .”

She didn’t miss the obvious reluctance on Griffin’s part at the mere mention of children, and while Isabelle understood the reticence, she knew well enough that he wouldn’t talk about what it was that truly bothered him until he was ready. “Griffin . . . can I ask you something?” she said at length when he didn’t respond.

“Don’t suppose I could stop you even if I wanted to,” he ventured.

She drew a deep breath to steady her nerves and tried to come up with a neutral way to ask the question that had been bothering her the most. “Do you want children? Someday, I mean . . .”

He seemed startled by her query, and when he dared to glance at her, she could see the slight hint of panic lingering just below the surface. “I, uh . . . I-I-I mean, I haven’t . . .”

She couldn’t contain the grimace that shot to the fore when the glass he held in his hand slipped through his fingers and shattered on the floor.

“Damn it!” he hissed, hunkering down to pick up the pieces. His hands, she noticed, were shaking, and he struggled to grasp even the larger bits. Frustration tinged with a modicum of self-disgust delineated his features. A couple of times, he managed to lift a jagged piece of glass, only to lose his grip on them before he could get them more than a couple inches off the floor.

Isabelle knelt down to help. Griffin’s terse growl stopped her. “ _No!_ ” he snarled angrily, shoving her hands away. “I can do this!”

‘ _His body’s fighting him_ ,’ she thought though she didn’t say it out loud. How often had she noticed over the time that she’d been with him that he just didn’t have the dexterity that he ought to? How many times had she seen him struggle to do something that should have been simple, but to him . . . To him, it just wasn’t.

“Griffin . . .”

Leaning back with a loud snort, he shook his head almost violently, his face darkening about four shades as his anger mounted. “B-b-babies?” he sputtered, pinning her with a fierce glare, narrowing his eyes as though he were trying to see into her head. “Why? So I can . . . can drop them? Hurt them? I-I can’t even hold onto a . . . a damn glass, for God’s sake! It’s not bad enough that I can’t stay in bed with . . . with you before my body goes haywire! I can’t—” With a loud sigh, he rubbed his face with a trembling hand, his anger dissolving in the space of a moment. “I can’t even hold onto a stupid glass,” he muttered once more.

“Do you really think you’d drop a child?” she asked gently, using a dishtowel to scoop together the broken glass.

Griffin grunted and shook his head, watching her quietly as she cleaned up the glass and dropped the towel into the trashcan.

“I . . . I don’t want to find out,” he admitted.

“I really don’t think—”

“There you are! We’ve been waiting for you two so we can open presents!”

Isabelle stifled a sigh and smiled indulgently at her youngest sister. Samantha waited while Griffin slowly got to his feet and held out a hand to help Isabelle. She intercepted the darkened expression on his face but didn’t comment. Obviously, he didn’t want to continue their discussion, especially in light of Samantha’s avid interest.

She hung back as Samantha linked her arm through Griffin’s and fairly dragged the man back into the living room as the smile died on Isabelle’s face, only to be replaced by a thoughtful frown.

‘ _He wouldn’t drop our child_ ,’ she reasoned, crossing her arms over her chest in a completely stubborn affectation.

‘ _He wouldn’t purposefully, no, but you know as well as I do that accidents happen. Anyone can accidentally do something like that, whether they intend to or not, and you know something? If that happened—if he did inadvertently bobble his child—do you honestly believe that he wouldn’t hate himself for it?_ ’

Isabelle sighed, conceding that bit of logic since it made sense enough to her. Just last week, she’d treated a child whose mother had accidentally bopped his head against a low hanging cupboard over the bar in her kitchen. The woman had been sobbing despite the fact that her son was fine, so she knew well enough that it was entirely possible.

“We’re waiting for you,” Kichiro said as he stepped into the kitchen.

Isabelle blinked and cast her father a wan smile in greeting. “Oh, I was . . .”

“You were worried about something?” he offered when she trailed off.

Letting her gaze fall to the floor where the glass had shattered, she shuffled her feet and fiddled with the hem of her peach angora sweater. “Griffin isn’t sure that he wants children,” she blurted then grimaced. She really hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but she just couldn’t help herself, either.

“Why’s that?” he asked in his legendary calm way.

She shook her head, trying to maintain a semblance of objectivity that she was far from feeling. “He’s afraid he . . . would drop the child.”

Kichiro clucked his tongue and nodded slowly, and he didn’t look entirely surprised by Isabelle’s assertion, either. Taking his time as he smoothed his eyebrow, he considered her words then shrugged. “If he’d let me take a look at him, I’d be able to assess whether or not surgery could help him.”

“I know,” she replied. “I just don’t know if he’d let you.”

Kichiro smiled and gave her a quick squeeze seconds before she felt the warmth of his lips press against her forehead. “Don’t worry. These things have a way of working themselves out.”

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Griffin scowled at his hand as he gingerly flexed his fingers to assess the incessant ache that had plagued him for the last few days without pause. ‘ _It’s . . . getting worse_ . . .’ he thought, wincing when a reverberating pain shot up his arm.

A loud round of laughter drifted through the ceiling from the living room above. Isabelle’s parents had come back to the house after Christmas day spent with the Zeligs, probably because of the ritual that Isabelle had detailed after their own hasty retreat—something about Zelig punishing Gin for some perceived wrongdoing. In any case, the first count had sent the assembly scattering faster than yelling, “Fire!” in a crowded theater.

He’d stayed upstairs for a while, at least until the pain in his hand had become too prevalent to easily mask. Then he’d sought out the relative sanctity of the basement, but he’d left the door open for once since Charlie was suffering distinct difficulty in deciding whether he wanted to be upstairs with their visitors or down here with him.

He had to admit, though, that the day had been pretty pleasant otherwise. Isabelle had gotten up unaccountably early, as anxious as a child to exchange gifts. She’d bought him some clothes and a huge tin of pecans along with a new watch and a few other odds and ends, and she’d seemed pleased by the gifts he’d gotten for her, too. Then she’d gone out of her way to cook breakfast for him, and while he wasn’t exactly big on sweets, he had to admit that the maple pecan muffins she’d made really had been pretty damn good . . .

Even spending the day with her family at the Zelig mansion had proved enjoyable. Her family really wasn’t nearly as bad as he would have liked to believe, and he even liked a few of them, though if he were to be completely honest, he’d also have to admit that more than a few of the women scared him, especially Sydnie. The cat youkai and wife of the future tai-youkai was, in his opinion, far more intimidating than her mate . . .

Grunting when a stabbing pain protested the methodical motion of his hand and fingers, Griffin shook his head. He hadn’t meant to blow up at Isabelle in the Zelig’s kitchen, and he figured that she was just biding her time until she could broach the subject once more, but he wasn’t about to change his mind so easily on it, either. If he couldn’t hold onto a glass, how in the world would he ever manage to hold onto a squirming baby?

It was crazy, wasn’t it? He’d always just coped with his shortcomings. He’d done it for so long that it had become second nature. He deserved the scars, didn’t he? The things he’d done . . . those who had died long before they ever should have . . . the scars he bore were a small price to pay when the others had lost so much more . . .

At least, that was what he’d always thought . . .

“So this is where you disappeared to. Mind if I visit with you for a while?”

Letting his hand drop, Griffin blinked and looked up as Kichiro Izayoi stepped off the stairs. “I, uh, didn’t mean to disappear. I just . . . umm . . .”

Kichiro chuckled as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and nodded. “They’ve moved on to ‘girl talk’—wedding planning—so I figured I’d make myself scarce.”

“The . . . wedding,” Griffin echoed. Isabelle had insisted that she wanted to do it as soon as possible, and while Griffin was inclined to agree, he had to wonder if he shouldn’t have insisted that they just go to the courthouse or something since the plans that she’d rattled on about to him had sounded more like battle coordination than an actual wedding. “She was worried about the timing,” he ventured. “Figured that since everyone would be here, she’d talk to Sesshoumaru about the progress with the research, too.”

“She said as much,” Kichiro replied.

Griffin shrugged. “You, uh . . . you think it’s safe to test on a few more people, then?”

“Sure . . . Gunnar’s bloodwork looks good now. Baby Belle’s fine-tuned the dosage chart, or so it would seem. All indications are that widening the test pool is the next logical step.”

Griffin grunted since it sounded much simpler than he knew it to be. “Finding more people to test it on is the problem,” he reminded Kichiro.

“Yeah, but I’m sure that we can come up with a workable list of those who might be interested and willing to help out. Given that Gunnar’s had positive results, I’m sure that finding willing subjects won’t be too difficult.”

“Good,” Griffin muttered, letting his gaze fall away as he slowly flexed his sore hand.

Kichiro cleared his throat. “Hey, um . . . why don’t you let me take a look at that?” he asked carefully, nodding his head once in the direction of Griffin’s hand.

Griffin’s automatic reaction was to say, ‘no’, but he hesitated for a moment. Something about the concern that was evident in Kichiro’s eyes stopped him, and while he wasn’t entirely keen on the idea, he was also more than a little reluctant to refuse on principle. “It’s fine,” he muttered instead, curling his fingers into a tight fist that he tried to hide between his spread knees.

Kichiro eyed him but didn’t respond right away. Crossing the humble floor, he sank down on the sofa beside Griffin, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers together, pointing down at the threadbare rug under the furniture. “Isabelle told me that you were . . . concerned . . . about your lack of mobility,” he finally ventured quietly.

Griffin didn’t answer, and he wasn’t surprised that she’d talked to her father about it, either. The surprising thing was that for once, he wasn’t angry over it, either.

“I’m not saying that surgery could fix you up entirely, but it may not hurt, either. I mean, I’d be better able to give you an accurate assessment if you’d allow me to check you over, and I can’t promise anything, but . . . Well, it’s an option.”

Griffin opened his mouth to tell Kichiro that he was fine, just fine, but was surprised at what actually came out. “I didn’t protect her,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “When Gregory showed up, I . . .” Flinching at the unfettered memories that assailed him, he shook his head and forced himself to continue. “I failed.”

“That’s not how I heard it,” Kichiro corrected, a touch of somber amusement in his tone. “Even Gunnar said that you fought well enough.”

Griffin’s reply to that was a very loud, very pronounced snort.

“There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”

This time, he sighed. “I . . . I can’t remember the last time I was able to stay in bed for more than a couple hours,” he admitted, his features contorting in a show of blatant irritation. “It didn’t used to bother me . . .”

“Pain?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes my leg just goes numb . . .”

Nodding slowly, Kichiro seemed to be considering what Griffin had said. “Sounds like a pinched or constricted nerve.”

Griffin’s gaze settled on the scrap box beside the hearth with a scowl. It seemed to him that the pile of broken bits was steadily growing at a faster rate than it used to. “She . . . she wants . . . cubs,” he muttered without taking his eyes off the box.

“She does,” Kichiro agreed in a mild tone. “Always has.”

“Cubs are . . . breakable.”

Kichiro’s chuckle was warm, reassuring, and Griffin blinked when the doctor’s hand gripped his shoulder. “Not nearly as breakable as you’d think. Why don’t you let me look at your hand now?”

He never would be entirely certain why he slowly held out his hand then. It might have had something to do with the concern that was quite evident on Kichiro’s face, or it may have been the inner realization that Griffin was being too stubborn for no good reason: that as much as he might like to think that he deserved the scarring he’d acquired, that the truth of it was that Isabelle didn’t, that maybe—just maybe—her needs, her dreams, her desires . . . Those things were far more important to him than those things that he thought he deserved.

Kichiro was gentle as he poked and prodded Griffin’s hand, taking note of the slightest change in expression as he thoroughly examined the limb. After what felt like hours but was probably only a matter of minutes, Kichiro sat back and smiled. “I’d like to run some tests—diagnostics, really—to get a better idea of what’s going on, but I didn’t feel any structural damage in your hand, at least, which would imply that the bulk of your problem is likely the built-up scar tissue.”

When Griffin didn’t reply right away, Kichiro sighed but smiled, watching as Griffin rubbed his hand in a completely thoughtful sort of way.

“There’s no rush, of course,” he went on kindly. “Why don’t you, um, let me make some arrangements with the clinic so I can get a more accurate assessment, and we can see what we can do from there? Just because you do this doesn’t mean that you have to do anything right away.”

“Y . . . yeah,” Griffin muttered. “Yeah . . .”

“I imagine that a lot of your scarring could probably be repaired with skin grafts,” Kichiro went on smoothly.

“You mean . . . you mean when they take skin off your body and . . . and move it?”

With a nod, Kichiro smiled just a little. “Something like that. It’s just something to think about.”

“No.”

Both men turned in time to watch Isabelle step off the stairs, and while she was smiling just a little, Griffin could sense the agitation in her youki. It was clear to him, yes, but the problem was that he wasn’t sure why . . . “Isabelle . . .?” Griffin forced himself to ask.

She didn’t speak as she crossed the floor and sat on the arm of the sofa beside Griffin.

“Something bothering you, Baby Belle?” Kichiro asked in a rather droll tone.

She shrugged offhandedly though the irritation surrounding her didn’t wane. “If you want to repair the damage that hinders Griffin’s mobility, that’s fine,” she said in a quiet, steady voice. “But these scars on his face . . . they’re mine. Leave them alone. You can’t touch them.”

Griffin’s head snapped to the side. He couldn’t help himself. Staring at her through disbelieving eyes, he could only shake his head slightly when she deliberately turned his face and kissed his flawed cheek. When she pulled back far enough to smile at him, though, he didn’t miss the wash of tears that lent her gaze an ethereal glow, and her smile widened when he blushed just a little. “They’re sexy, don’t you think?”

Kichiro laughed and pushed himself to his feet. “You win, daughter of mine, though I hesitate to comment on your mate’s perceived sex appeal.”

She laughed, too, slipping off the arm of the sofa and into Griffin’s lap as the sounds of Kichiro’s retreating footsteps sounded in their ears. “I wouldn’t change a thing about you, you know,” she murmured, cuddling against his shoulder with a completely contented sigh.

“W . . . wouldn’t you?” he asked, almost smiling, burying his nose deep in her hair.

“I love you,” she went on, her tone as light as her breathing, and while her words caught him off guard, they didn’t surprise him, either. “Everything about you . . . since the moment I first saw you, but I’ve never wanted to fix you. You were never broken.”

A sudden, choking thickness squeezed his throat, and he had to blink rapidly to stave back the emotion that she’d inspired in him. “Isabelle, I . . .”

“I know,” she said when his voice faltered. “I know.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final_** **_Thought_** **_from_** **_Kichiro_** :  
>  _Surgery, eh …?_


	76. April 10, 2066

“I have to admit that I was a little worried that you’d come to your senses and stole away before the ceremony started.”

“Wh-what?” Griffin stammered, casting Isabelle a suspect glance as he fought valiantly to keep from fidgeting as they stood side by side, accepting a steady stream of well wishes and congratulations directly following the quiet little ceremony that had bound them legally for the rest of their lives. Regaining a modicum of his composure, though, he grunted and leaned toward her slightly, close enough to whisper in her ear. “That damned cousin of yours told me that you had done that.”

Smiling at his disgruntled tone, she squeezed his forearm and giggled softly. “With the florist?” she asked quizzically, arching an eyebrow to emphasize her question.

Griffin snorted again, his cheeks pinking just a little. “The caterer.”

Her laughter spilled over as she hugged her father and mother. Kichiro smiled warmly as Bellaniece dabbed at her eyes with a pristine white handkerchief embroidered with her father’s initials in the corner, but her smile was genuine as she gently clasped Isabelle’s face in her hands and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “You look beautiful,” she whispered, her usual dulcet voice breaking slightly, taking on a husky tinge of emotion that shone in her deep blue eyes.

“Of course she does,” Kichiro chided, giving his mate a quick hug. “She looks like her mama, doesn’t she?”

“Stop hoggin’ the bride,” a plaintive growl cut in moments before Isabelle gasped, drawn into a firm hug by her grandfather, InuYasha. “You treat her right; got it?” he demanded, staring over Isabelle’s head at her new husband.

Griffin’s jaw clenched, and he nodded once. “Yeah, don’t break her,” he grumbled, grasping Isabelle’s arm to gently draw her away from InuYasha and securely against his side once more.

“Welcome to the family,” Kagome greeted with a polite bow, “and just ignore him, please. His bark is much worse than his bite.”

“Keh! Says you, wench,” InuYasha complained, rolling his eyes.

“Outta the way, old man,” Ryomaru cut in, shouldering his sire aside. With the goofy grin that Isabelle knew so well, her uncle leaned down to kiss her cheek then tweaked her nose for good measure. “Kami, that damned dress is so big, can’t barely give you a decent hug.”

“It’s a wedding dress,” his mate, Nezumi interjected, poking Ryomaru in the ribs. “Now stop trying to wrinkle her, why don’t you?”

His answer was a silly yet completely endearing grin. Nezumi shook her head but laughed as she pushed her mate along to shake Griffin’s hand.

“Ah, Isabelle, you look lovely, as always,” Attean Masta—Griffin’s best man—said with a charming smile as he kissed the back of her hand.

Maria kissed the air near her cheek and smiled. “Make sure you keep Osezno in line, no?”

“I will,” she assured the woman.

Griffin wrinkled his nose and snorted indelicately. “She’s the one who needs watched,” he muttered under his breath.

Maria laughed and tugged the groom down to kiss him, too, sparing a moment to wipe the lingering lipstick from his cheek.

“If you should require any advice on adjusting to the married life, feel free to call,” Attean quipped.

“From a guy who buys his mate appliances for Christmas? I’ll pass.”

“Oi, Bitty! Finally found someone who can put up with you?” Morio Izayoi remarked when he and his mate reached the couple.

“You found someone willing to put up with you, and Isabelle’s a far sight nicer than you are,” Meara Izayoi teased.

Morio grinned unrepentantly, kissing Isabelle and then Meara’s cheeks in turn. “I’m not _that_ bad!” he protested.

“Yes, you are,” Mikio Izayoi said, casting Isabelle an endearingly shy smile as he fiddled absently with his twitching ear. “Congratulations, Bitty. I hope the two of you are really happy together.”

“I don’t know about happy,” Gunnar remarked, stopping just behind Mikio and Morio with his date—a hawk-youkai who Isabelle had never met before—beside him. The woman didn’t do much more than paste on a somewhat perfunctory smile—a polite expression normally reserved for people one didn’t know very well. It only served to amuse Isabelle. She was gorgeous, of course. Isabelle wouldn’t have expected any less from a woman whom Gunnar chose to spend any length of time with, and while she was also certain that she was absolutely the epitome of refined, she could also sense a certain aloofness in the woman, too.

“Congrats, Isabelle . . . maybe I’ll sing for you later,” Evan Zelig offered as he shook Griffin’s hand and winked at his cousin.

Sebastian groaned, having overheard Evan’s proposal, and he gave Isabelle a warning look. “Don’t let him,” he warned with a shake of his head.

Isabelle only laughed since she remembered the song Evan had chosen to dedicate to Bas and Sydnie at their wedding.

“Maddy sends her best wishes,” Evan went on with a very charming, very boyish sort of grin. “She had some things going down in Los Angeles, so she couldn’t make it.”

“Tell her thanks the next time you talk to her,” Isabelle replied.

“Absolutely!”

“Oh, wow . . . that dress looks even better in person!” Jillian Jamison squealed as she threw her arms around Isabelle. “I hope you’re as happy as Gavvie and I are!”

Gavin chuckled despite the hint of a blush that had crept into his cheeks.   “Congratulations, and, um . . .” Trailing off, he offered Griffin a rueful little smile. “Good luck.”

Griffin grunted as Gavin clapped him on the shoulder and moved away. Isabelle couldn’t resist leaning up on her toes to whisper in his ear, “Good luck, huh? You know, maybe you and I could slip away so that I could see what I can do about that . . .”

He frowned and shook his head, obviously not understanding her meaning. “Don’t you want to . . . get lucky, Dr. Marin?”

“Jezebel!” he hissed under his breath, pinning her with a completely adorable, if not wholly chagrined, sort of look.

“Isabelle . . . Dr. Marin. I trust that you’ll keep this one on a relatively short leash?”

Isabelle smiled brightly, leaning up to kiss her great uncle’s cheek. “You know, my leash is just fine,” she commented as her smile widened. “Though you may want to shorten Mamoruzen’s. Seems like he’s been getting around a bit _too_ much, if you ask me.”

Sesshoumaru didn’t bat an eye despite the quick glance he cast his grandson, who was currently leaning down to listen to whatever his date _du jour_ had to say. “She is not his mate,” he remarked evenly, as though that statement was more than enough for him, as far as the subject of his grandson’s behavior was concerned.

“And if she were, then I would imagine that he would be the happier for it,” Kagura, Sesshoumaru’s mate, interjected as she hugged Isabelle, her silken robes still as gorgeous as Isabelle could remember. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Dr. Marin,” she went on, turning her attention to the bear-youkai. “I am honored that you have chosen our Isabelle to mate.”

Griffin looked a little uncomfortable with what amounted to high praise. He nodded and cleared his throat but remained silent as the couple moved away to talk to Ben Philips, who had just stepped outside.

Isabelle drew a deep breath and flipped her skirt out of the way as she turned to face her new husband. Decked out in his ceremonial clothing—he’d told her a few days before that he hadn’t worn it in centuries—there was something wholly unsettling about the visage he presented. Far more regal, almost unapproachable, he seemed, and yet . . .

And yet in the same conversation he’d told her that those moments in his life that he considered to be nightmares all began with these clothes. So why had he smiled just a little as he’d gently ran his fingers over the ornate embroidery on the right shoulder of the pitch-bat garb? Why had he shrugged and said that wearing it for their wedding would be fine, maybe even the right thing to do? Staring at him in the early spring sunshine as the scent of flowers and the crisp breeze floated off the ocean, maybe she understood. ‘ _If one good memory can erase a lifetime of bad ones_ . . .’ she mused as her smile widened just a little. ‘ _A thousand smiles for every tear . . . a thousand lifetimes for every lost soul . . . I promise you, Griffin . . . I promise_.’

“Why do you look like the cat that ate the canary?” Griffin asked, his eyebrows drawing together in a mock frown as he carefully regarded her.

She laughed. “Dance with me?” she asked, tilting her head to the side in an almost coquettish way.

“I-I-I don’t dance,” he muttered then grimaced. Shifting his eyes to the side, he seemed as though he were trying to decide something. “M-maybe one time,” he allowed. Bending his arm, he started to extend it, only to draw it back a couple of times. Finally, and with a long, draw-out sigh, he turned slightly and stuck his arm out, bent at the elbow and cleared his throat. “Don’t make a habit of it.”

Curbing her laughter, she slipped her hand under his elbow, intercepted his nervous glance as he licked his lips and started forward.

The band that Isabelle had hired stopped tuning their instruments as their leader spoke in hushed tones to Kichiro. After a minute, the conductor nodded, and Kichiro stepped over to the black baby grand piano and sat down, sparing a moment to adjust the microphone that was affixed to the instrument.

He tapped it a couple of times to test it then cleared his throat. “If I could have everyone’s attention, please . . . I’d like to take a moment to thank you all for coming today to celebrate my daughter’s marriage to a fine man.” He paused here and smiled, but it seemed to Isabelle that the expression was wholly for her. “Baby Belle, I’m proud of you. You’ve grown into a . . . beautiful woman . . . Griffin . . . today and tomorrow and . . . forever after this, she’ll be your wife, and I know you’ll love her and cherish her, but from the moment she entered my life, she was and always will be my little girl.”

She couldn’t stop the tears that filled her eyes, spilled down her cheeks as Griffin pulled her close, as he shuffled his feet, dancing with her to a song that her father had played for her so many times through the years. A vicious stab of bittersweet emotion dug at her heart: a sad sort of sweetness when she remembered the evenings spent cuddling on her father’s lap while her mother read her stories or brushed her hair even as a burgeoning sense of absolute completeness cosseted her in the gentlest form of Griffin’s arms around her. Still, the words of the song that she knew so well tugged at her heart in a simple but beautiful way, and when he reached the last verse, Kichiro’s voice faltered for a moment as he sang . . .

 

 

“ _’Butterfly kisses, with her mama there_ ,’  
‘ _Stickin’ little white flowers all up in her hair_ ,’  
‘“ _Walk me down the aisle, Daddy; it’s just about time_ ,”’  
‘“ _Does my wedding gown look pretty, Daddy?” “Daddy, don’t cry_ ,”’  
‘ _With all that I’ve done wrong, I must have done something right_ ,’  
‘ _To deserve a hug every morning, and butterfly kisses_ ,’  
‘ _I couldn’t ask God for more, man, this is what love is_ ,’  
‘ _I know I’ve gotta let her go, but I’ll always remember_ ,’  
‘ _Every hug in the morning, and butterfly kisses_. . .’”

 

 

“You’re not leaking, are you?”

Her weak laughter mingled with tears sounded completely pathetic in her ears. “No,” she lied then sniffled, attesting to her little white lie.

He sighed. “You’re supposed to be happy today,” he reminded her, sounding rather disgruntled.

“I am,” she replied, smiling up at him despite the tears that continued to course down her cheeks. “I love you.”

He winced then sighed and shook his head. “Then don’t leak.”

She stared at him for a long moment then slipped her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly as her laughter mingled with the last poignant notes of her father’s song.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“Disgusting.”

“You think so?”

“You don’t?”

Bas Zelig grinned as he slipped his hands into his pockets and stared across the sprawling lawn at his cousin, Morio, who was carrying a very plentiful bouquet of mismatched flowers gleaned, Bas was certain, from his mother’s beautiful flowerbeds that accentuated the Zeligs’ back yard despite the myriad of blooms that had been brought in for Isabelle and Griffin’s wedding. “I don’t know . . . seems harmless enough to me.”

Gunnar Inutaisho grunted, flicking a nonexistent bit of fuzz off the pristine white sleeve of his ceremonial garb. “No man should ever be caught dead bearing flowers,” he scoffed.

“Flowers have their uses,” Evan Zelig piped up as he stopped beside the two.

Gunnar snorted. “There is something profoundly disturbing about the idea of killing off something for no good reason,” he maintained, crossing his arms over his chest in a stubborn display.

“Spoken like a man who doesn’t get nearly enough pussy,” Evan shot back with a saucy grin.

Bas rolled his eyes and opted to ignore his sibling since he knew well enough that Evan was just trying to irritate them.

“Must you spew your vulgarities around more polite society?” Gunnar asked rather dryly.

Evan’s grin widened. “Watch and learn, Gunnar. Watch and learn.”

“He really ought to have been neutered at birth,” Gunnar muttered half under his breath.

“Maybe, but Mom kind of likes him, so what can you do?” Bas deadpanned.

Sydnie sauntered over and slipped her hand under her mate’s elbow. “The ceremony was beautiful; don’t you think?”

Bas smiled down at her and nodded. “Yeah, it was,” he agreed. “I think ours was better, though. Must’ve had something to do with the bride . . .”

“Bite your tongue, puppy!” Sydnie chided with a shake of her head. “It’s bad form to belittle the bride on her wedding day!”

Bas chuckled and kissed his wife’s cheek. “I wasn’t belittling her,” he argued. “She looks pretty, sure. I’ve just always thought that you were _prettier_ —personal opinion, of course.”

She seemed pacified enough by Bas’ compliment and subsequent explanation, but her smile faded only to be replaced by a thoughtful frown as she watched Evan. “What’s he doing?” she asked as the man in question stooped to cut off a few long stemmed flowers from the copious raised flower gardens.

“It’s Evan. It’s hard to say,” Bas replied with a shrug.

“Hmm,” she intoned with a slow nod. She watched Evan’s antics for another moment before turning her crystalline gaze on Gunnar. “The white is too pristine,” she remarked at length but only after giving him a very cautious once over.

Gunnar’s lips quirked in a small grin, and he raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” she stated with authority. “It doesn’t suit you.”

He chuckled. “My humblest apologies, puss. I didn’t get to choose. Dance with me, Sydnie.”

“Watch your hands, Gunsie,” Bas warned though he didn’t try to stop them.

Gunnar shot Bas an entirely insincere grin as he closed his hand over Sydnie’s fingers on his elbow. “I watch them all the time, Bas-tard.”

She giggled but let Gunnar pull her off toward the open area that had been set with a portable but beautiful hardwood surface for dancing. She had to admit, however grudgingly, that she had been caught slightly off guard when she’d first seen Gunnar, turned out in his finery. She’d grown too accustomed to seeing him in normal clothing—or as close to normal as Gunnar Inutaisho was like to be, anyway. Something about the ceremonial clothes, though . . . It lent a certain aloofness to the already untouchable man, and while she certainly could appreciate that unnamable quality, she had to admit that she much preferred the lopsided grins and understated shyness of her mate.

Still, Gunnar, in her opinion, was as good as one of her own, and that being the case, she’d been hard pressed not to introduce his date for the occasion to the sharp side of her tongue, especially when she’d caught one too many of the woman’s sly smiles, the tepid sort of expression that stated quite plainly that she thought herself to be of far more import than she actually was.

Turning her head, she pursed her lips. Easy, it was, to find the woman, even in the crowd of guests that mulled about the yard. She was standing with Gavin and Jillian: the prior looking entirely bored while the latter was having some sort of discussion with the hawk-youkai who had accompanied Gunnar to the wedding.

“You know, isn’t there an unwritten rule that guests at a wedding should not wear the same color as the bride?” she asked at length, taking an obvious jab at Gunnar’s date and her simple white dress.

Gunnar’s chuckle was something that Sydnie felt under her hand that rested on his shoulder though she didn’t hear it. “Is there?” he countered mildly and without asking for clarification since he didn’t really need it, anyway.

“Hmm,” she uttered, unimpressed by his show of nonchalance. “I doubt that she chose to wear that because of the occasion as much as she chose to wear it to match you . . . So what is your hussy’s name? I must have missed it.”

Gunnar rolled his eyes—an affectation that Sydnie didn’t see—but his smile widened indulgently. “Now I know that you were standing with Bas when I introduced Candace.”

“ _Candace_ ,” Sydnie echoed in a tone that left little room for interpretation as to what, exactly, the cat-youkai thought of his date. “Sounds like a stripper.”

“Put your claws away, puss,” he admonished though his tone lacked any real censure, “and she’s a child psychologist—hardly a hussy or a stripper.”

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” Sydnie insisted, waving her hand in a completely dismissive sort of way. “I’m feeling a bit hungry. Maybe I’ll have her for dinner. Where do you keep finding them?” Sydnie lamented with a drawn-out sigh.

“Now, Sydnie, if you’ll recall, I tried to steal you away from Bas . . . a few times, but you chose him, so . . .”

She wrinkled her nose. “If I could have had two puppies . . .”

“I’m not that big a proponent of sharing,” he commented lightly.

“Oh? And your . . . Candace? Are you really going to tell me that she only makes herself available to you?”

“What she does when we’re not together is of very little interest to me as long as I’m the one she’s thinking of when we’re together.”

Sydnie smiled, her eyes flicking coolly over the hawk-youkai, who was watching the two of them with avid interest that she barely tried to hide. “Looks like someone is jealous,” she commented.

Gunnar turned his head to see what Sydnie was talking about, his eyes brightening for a mere moment before he concealed whatever he was thinking. “She knows better,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Sydnie.

Sydnie sighed but held her tongue. She knew well enough that Gunnar just could not tolerate any sort of possessiveness in the women he dated. ‘ _Too bad for you, Candace_ ,’ she mused, shifting her gaze away.   ‘ _You’re as good as gone_ . . .’

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“I don’t know . . . I don’t think it’s a good idea, Morio . . .”

Morio Izayoi grinned, rolling his eyes at his uncle’s dubious tone of voice. “Aww, why not? Isabelle would think it was funny . . .”

Nodding slowly as he fiddled with his left ear, Mikio Izayoi considered it. “N-no-o-o-o,” he finally drawled. “Bitty might think it’s funny, but I really don’t think her mate will.”

Unfortunately, Morio’s grin only widened. “The old man said that Uncle told him that Griffin needs to lighten up a little, so what’s the harm?”

Mikio shook his head, jerking his hand away from his twitching ear when he intercepted his mother’s concerned glance. If he weren’t careful, she’d march right over, slap a hand on Mikio’s forehead, and send him off to lie down before he could protest—or even blink. “The harm is that Dr. Marin is . . . well, he’s huge, and while I might think that you getting laid out on your ass is funny, I don’t think that you would.”

“Aww, the bigger they are, the slower they are . . . Just look at Bas, will you?”

“Maybe, but when Bas does hit you, you complain about it for days, and Marin-sensei is nearly as big as Bas,” Mikio pointed out.

That statement seemed to take a little of the wind out of Morio’s sails. “All right; all right. You win,” Morio conceded with a shake of his head and a very distinct pout. “No water balloons . . .”

Mikio relaxed just a little, pacified with the knowledge that Morio wasn’t going to declare war on anyone in the guise of good fun. Isabelle caught his eye where she swayed with in her grandfather’s arms, and he nodded slightly, unable to staunch the timid little smile that surfaced on his features when he noticed not for the first time that she really did seem to sparkle. Hair caught up in a simple but elegant arrangement of curls that cascaded down her back, glittering with a myriad of tiny seedling pearls that had to have taken hours to arrange, he couldn’t help but think back about the years that had passed, of watching the girl who had been little more than a tangle of long arms and spindly legs as she’d grown up, changed into the rosy cheeked, bright eyed woman who he had traveled around the world just to be silent witness to her marriage.

“You know, the old man doesn’t look too thrilled,” Morio remarked, shaking Mikio out of his reverie.

“Papa?” Mikio asked with a slight shake of his head.

“Yop.”

Mikio’s gaze shifted over the crowd. It didn’t take long for him to locate his father in the fray. The bright red fire-rat clothing that he wore stood out dramatically, and coupled with the fact that he was standing beside Sesshoumaru looking entirely put out by their proximity, Mikio wasn’t surprised when InuYasha’s expression darkened at something that his uncle had said.

“Grandma looks lonely,” Morio decided, clapping Mikio on the shoulder as he started to walk away.

Mikio sighed and shook his head, not surprised to see Morio sneak up behind Kagome, only to grasp her sides and swing her around in a wide circle. He whispered something to her that made her laugh, and with her hand pressed over her mouth to staunch her amusement, she let Morio drag her off to the dance floor.

“Sometimes I swear I should be jealous.”

Mikio started and turned in time to see Meara, Morio’s mate, as she approached. Bright silver eyes trained on her mate as he engaged Kagome in a ridiculous dance, she smiled and let out a soft little sigh. “He really loves his family,” she went on at length.

“Yeah . . . he does,” Mikio replied, nimble fingers toying with the left ear twitching nervously atop his head.

“Isabelle looks beautiful,” she ventured, lifting the single purple crocus to her nose as a gentle smile touched her features.

“Well . . . brides are supposed to, right?”

“Maybe . . .” she demurred. “Yours will be, too, of course.”

Shuffling uncomfortably at the sudden shift in the conversation, Mikio schooled his features blank and gave what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug. “Ma-maybe.”

Meara shook her head slowly and sighed. Mikio winced inwardly, knowing that she’d seen right through him. She was a little spooky that way . . . “Since my husband’s preoccupied, I don’t suppose you’d care to dance with me.”

“I don’t . . . don’t really know how,” Mikio stammered.

Meara threw her head back and laughed, her thick mane of auburn hair cascading down her back in ribbons of velvet, shining in the sunlight. “Then I’ll be sure to teach you!” she insisted, grabbing Mikio’s arm and dragging him off to dance.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“So when are you going to marry my sister?”

John Troyer coughed and smiled despite the hint of pink that tinged his cheeks as she shook his head, sending the neat length of his low hanging, light brown ponytail over his shoulder in the process. “Alexandra isn’t nearly as fond of that word as I am,” he admitted with a shrug and without missing a step as he turned Isabelle neatly in time to the classic waltz that was playing. “I guess I’m not really at liberty to answer that.”

Isabelle nodded, using her thumb to fiddle with the loop of ribbon that wrapped around her finger to keep the train of her skirt out of the way while she danced. “I’m sure that you’ll convince her,” she teased with a quick wink.

John heaved a dramatic sigh and shrugged. “It’s not for lack of trying on my part,” he replied easily enough. “Anyway, I must say, you look absolutely gorgeous,” he went on.

Isabelle rolled her eyes but smiled. “Don’t think that I don’t know that you’re just trying to change the subject,” she pointed out.

He grinned, his dark green eyes glowing mischievously. “Is it working?”

“Maybe.”

He chuckled. “Griffin . . . he’s the quiet sort, isn’t he?”

“I suppose you could say that,” Isabelle allowed. “He’s lived a long time.”

John nodded. “So I gathered. You know . . . I always wondered what it’d take to tame you.” He paused to chuckle again. “Can’t say that I ever imagined a guy like him to be the one to do it.”

“Oh?”

He shook his head, but his smile didn’t fade. “As long as he makes you happy,” he remarked.

“And he does.”

John stared at her for a long moment then nodded just once. “Good.”

The song drew to a close, and John pulled her close into a firm, friendly hug before he stepped back and bowed. “I wish you all the best, Isabelle—or should I say, Dr. Marin?”

Her laughter lingered in the air as her sister stepped up beside her and gave her arm a quick squeeze. “Why don’t you take a break from dancing and spend a minute with me?” she teased, maneuvering Isabelle away from the dance floor toward the table where the champagne fountain had been set up. Taking two upturned crystal flutes, she filled them both and offered one to Isabelle.

“I saw that you actually got Grandpa out to dance,” Isabelle remarked between sips of her champagne.

Alexandra shot her an impish grin and shrugged. “He’s too uptight for his own good, don’t you think?”

Isabelle nodded. Of course, InuYasha had danced with her one time. That was rather to be expected, she figured, but it had amused her to no end to watch as Alexandra had managed to coax the surly hanyou into compliance, and in Isabelle’s opinion, that alone had been more than worth the price of admission.

“I imagine that we’ll be attending another wedding soon, won’t we?” Isabelle asked casually, her gaze flicking over her sister in a frank and rapt sort of way. “Would that be in Japan or in Australia?”

Fussing with the airy sleeve of the pale pink silk dress that Isabelle had chosen for her, Alexandra studiously averted her gaze. “John and I haven’t really talked about it,” she allowed at length.

“Isn’t he your mate?”

Alexandra’s dark blue eyes shot up to meet Isabelle’s before skittering away once more. “We haven’t talked about it,” she stated once more.

Isabelle shook her head. Alexandra and John had been dating for years, from the time they’d met in college. Still, if she wasn’t ready to discuss it, then there wasn’t really anything anyone could do about that, right?

“Tell me something,” Alexandra went on casually.

“Tell you what?” Isabelle countered with an arched eyebrow.

Alexandra laughed, her expression taking on a devilish sort of glow. “Is there a difference?”

“A difference in what?”

Alexandra laughed and set her champagne flute aside before grasping Isabelle’s arm and leaning in close. “Between regular sex and mated sex!”

Isabelle laughed and hugged her sister. “There is a world of difference,” she replied, her smile taking on a gentler light. “When you love someone—really love someone . . . it’s beautiful.”

Alexandra didn’t look entirely convinced, but she nodded as she tucked an errant strand of golden bronze hair behind her ear. “You mean, like dandelions and roses?”

“No,” Isabelle drawled, shaking her head. Dandelions . . . they were common and they were regular, but that wasn’t exactly what she was trying to say. “More like . . . day and night. At night, you can only see shadows and shades of darkness. During the day, you can see . . . well, _everything_.”

“Griffin’s your daylight.”

Isabelle nodded. “Lexi . . . isn’t John yours?”

She didn’t get a chance to answer as Bas and Gunnar strode toward them. “Come on, Izzy,” Gunnar remarked, grabbing Isabelle’s hand to drag her off to dance. “I haven’t gotten a chance to dance with the bride yet.”

“Care to dance, Lexi?” Bas asked, offering his arm with a raised eyebrow.

“Won’t your kitty try to skin me?” she couldn’t help teasing since she knew as well as anyone that Sydnie Zelig did not like to share her man.

Bas grinned, dispelling the overall sternness of his normal expression. “She makes allowances for weddings,” he assured her.

Lexi laughed and threaded her hand under Bas’ elbow, allowing him to lead her off to dance.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘ ** _Butterfly_** **_Kisses_** _’ written by Bob Carlisle and Randy Thomas. Copyright Bob Carlisle, Randy Thomas, and Polygram Music Group, LTD_.
> 
> **_== == == == == == == == == ==_ **
> 
> **_Final_** **_Thought_** **_from_** **_Isabelle_** :  
>  _Married_ …


	77. Avouchment

Griffin let out a deep breath and cast a surreptitious glance at the gathering as he ducked around the corner of the immense Zelig mansion in the hopes to catch just a moment alone to gather his thoughts and compose himself.

No doubt about it, he sure as hell wasn’t used to this much attention, and it was wearing on him much worse than he cared to admit. Attean had teasingly suggested that Griffin and Isabelle run off an elope during Griffin’s disaster of a bachelor’s party the night before as the bear had nursed the one and only bottle of beer he’d had all night. It had tasted disgusting, and in another inspired moment, Attean had muttered to him that he should hang onto the bottle even though he didn’t like it so that he could hold it up whenever someone offered to buy him a drink. The ruse had actually worked, though, and for that, at least, Griffin had been grateful.

At least the men hadn’t tried to drag him off to some seedier establishment, though he had little doubt that they had all wanted to try. Isabelle’s odd-duck cousin, Evan had suggested a strip club—not that Griffin would have gone within a hundred paces of one of those, and her cousin, Morio had suggested mini-golf—also not something that he had a yen to try. By the time the bar was suggested, Griffin had figured it was the lesser of the evils presented, and while he’d tried to get out of it, citing that he’d much rather stay home and read a book or something, he’d ended up being carted off.

Of course, that was after Isabelle’s mother had stated that the bride would be spending the night at the Zelig mansion in Bevelle, where the wedding was going to take place. He’d been about as keen on that as he had been with the idea of going to a strip club, but those damned women had insisted that it was tradition, and Isabelle, the traitor, had laughed and agreed.

At present, though, she was being handed around to every man in attendance—the current unfortunate soul being her uncle, Toga, the current Japanese tai-youkai.

Satisfied that no one had seen him slip away, Griffin let out a deep breath and looked around, only to stop short when he noticed the small form huddled under a stout white ash tree. In the blur that the day had become, Griffin hadn’t noticed the girl’s absence from the festivities, and with a frown, he shuffled forward, purposefully stepping on a twig or kicking a few stones to let her know that he was approaching.

“Why aren’t you back there with the rest of your family?” he asked, scowling as his knees popped when he hunkered down in front of her.

Samantha shrugged, locking her hands tighter around her knees and refusing to look at him. “Don’t know,” she whispered.

“If you stay gone too long, they’ll look for you,” he pointed out, and while he wasn’t at all certain that what he said was true or not, he was reasonably sure that they’d miss her eventually. “So why are you over here, anyway?”

“Just thinking.”

“What about?”

Again she shrugged. “About whether or not youkai can get a divorce.”

His eyebrows shot up at her strange statement. “Well, I suppose they could,” he allowed. “Why?”

“I told you before,” she replied, her voice almost accusing. “There’s not going to be any decent men left when I try to find someone.”

Griffin chuckled, more because of the absolute irritation evident on the girl’s face than because of her statement. “I think you’re over exaggerating.”

She snorted, grabbing a handful of grass and jerking it out of the ground with a vicious yank.

“Anyway, you, uh . . . you look . . . pretty . . . today.” Narrowing his gaze as he sat back on his heels, Griffin cleared his throat. “Why is your dress black?”

She shot him a quick look, and he was surprised to see a tint of pink rise in her pale cheeks. “I . . . was protesting,” she admitted.

“Protesting?”

She scrunched up her shoulders and made a face, her little nose wrinkling as she slowly shook her head. “You were supposed to wait for me,” she muttered.

It was Griffin’s turn to blush, and he did it with flair.

Samantha didn’t notice, scowling at the ground as she was. “Why did you have to marry her?”

“W—I—” Pushing himself to his feet, he shuffled his feet. “N-no one else wanted her,” he finally blurted.

“That’s not really a reason to marry someone,” she pointed out.

Griffin made a face and shrugged. “I . . . I wanted to,” he mumbled.

Samantha stared at him for a long moment then heaved a sigh and stood up, carefully brushing her skirt off. “Would you . . . dance with me, Griffin?” she asked at length.

Griffin opened his mouth to say no, but hesitated at the entirely too-hopeful expression on her face. “Uh . . . okay . . .”

The lingering traces of her upset faded in that instant, and she positively beamed at him as she grasped his hand and pulled him back the way he’d come . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Shippou stood on the patio, one hand on the railing, the other loosely holding a champagne flute as he stared thoughtfully at the milling crowd.

Rin and he had arrived late—their flight had encountered an unexpected delay when one of the engines had to undergo emergency repairs in London, and they’d pretty much only had time to check in at the hotel, change clothes, and jump into their rental car after they’d finally landed.

His wife had run off to greet some of their relatives that they hadn’t seen for a while, and Shippou had started to follow her—until the bear-youkai had stepped around the side of the mansion being dragged along by a smiling Samantha. Something about the man unsettled Shippou—something about his bearing, his demeanor. Certainly, he’d known that Isabelle’s mate was a bear-youkai, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew the man somehow—or at least, that he should.

Dark, shaggy hair . . . eyes that he couldn’t discern but could tell that they were dark in color, too . . . incredibly tall and broad . . . but if Shippou had seen him before, why couldn’t he place him now?

“So you did make it.”

Shippou nodded absently without taking his attention off the man dancing with Samantha Izayoi. “Unexpected delay,” he murmured, casually sipping his champagne as the spring breeze tossed his rust-colored ponytail over his shoulder. “Why do I feel like I know that man?”

Sesshoumaru’s gaze shifted to the man in question. “Because you do . . . at least, I believe that you did.”

“I did?” Shippou echoed with a shake of his head, finally dragging his gaze off the bear-youkai in favor of staring at his father-in-law, instead.

Sesshoumaru’s eyes were narrowed slightly, contemplating the bear-youkai in question, Shippou supposed. Still, there was something about Sesshoumaru’s expression—a certain knowledge that Shippou couldn’t comprehend—almost a sadness that he couldn’t understand. Sesshoumaru blinked and looked away, his eyes once more the unreadable visage that was far more familiar. “Though you knew him by a different name . . . in a different time and in another place.”

Shippou shook his head again, unable to grasp just what Sesshoumaru was trying to say. Spoken in half-riddles with only the barest sense of any real answers, it was the way he’d always been, maybe the way he always would be . . . “I don’t . . .”

“What befell his family was the last of a stream of circumstances that brought about the end . . . or the beginning. Tortured . . . mutilated . . . an ignoble end in the vilest of places . . . They were not destroyed by guns; they were destroyed by hatred . . . If humans could do what they did to his kin . . . it would have just grown worse and worse. Do you understand?”

Shippou considered that and nodded slowly, and for the briefest of moments, he could hear the screams that had faded away so long ago, could smell the scent of death—the acrid reek of burning flesh. He knew it, and he could smell it, and with a soft gasp, his eyes widened as his brain denied what his heart already knew. “But . . . but he . . . he _died_ . . .”

“So I thought. Obviously not.”

Shippou didn’t say anything as Sesshoumaru descended the steps to the lawn below.

‘ _But . . . his injuries_ . . .’ How he’d managed to move back then was something that Shippou hadn’t understood and, in truth, still couldn’t. He’d been left half alive, his body moving because he had something that he wanted to do: to lay his baby sister to rest . . .

It _couldn’t_ be . . . could it?

Watching as the bear-youkai escorted Samantha to her father’s side, Shippou frowned. Griffin backed away, almost seemed to blend into the crowd, and he wondered if that were a skill that Griffin had worked to perfect over the years. If he could just see him up closer, he’d be sure.

Almost without thinking, Shippou set the glass aside and moved down the steps, crossing the lawn with his eyes trained on the bear. Griffin had made it to the edge of the assembly, stopping long enough to glance around before slipping under the cover of the trees surrounding the yard.

A familiar scent wafted to him, carried on the breeze without any pomp or circumstance, and while it was slightly different than he remembered—taking a mate would do it, he supposed—he couldn’t deny the truth of it, either.

Griffin turned around at the sound of a twig snapping under Shippou’s shoe, and when he did, the kitsune stopped dead, recognizing the man’s eyes, the expression on his face despite the disfiguring scars that traversed his cheek. “Kami . . . It _is_ you,” he whispered. “K . . . Kioshi . . .”

Griffin blinked at the sound of that name—a name he hadn’t heard in so very many years. Shaking his head as though he didn’t understand, as though he didn’t recognize Shippou at all, he didn’t say anything as he stood his ground.

“I thought . . .” Trailing off with a shake of his head, Shippou suddenly laughed a little weakly. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

A fleeting glimpse of recognition flickered over Griffin’s expression, but his gaze narrowed as he stared at Shippou. “Shippou . . .?”

He laughed again—a heartier sound, digging his hands into his pockets as he slowly nodded. “It’s been a while, huh?”

Griffin shook his head slightly, as though he still wasn’t entirely certain that Shippou really was standing there. “Y-you’ve changed.”

“Yeah, so have you.” With a sudden chuckle, he stepped forward, drawing Griffin into a tight hug, full of emotion that Shippou hadn’t the words to voice. Griffin seemed a little stunned, but slowly, he lifted his arms to return the gesture. The many nights that he’d sat wondering what had become of the bear-youkai seemed to fade. In the expanse of time that had separated them, he’d grown, and in the process, he’d learned a few things; things such as the value of a friend, and the sadness of losing one, too. “Everything’s as it should be, then?” he asked as he stepped back.

Griffin nodded, blinking quickly as he cleared his throat and ducked his head. “I think so.”

Shippou chuckled, squeezing Griffin’s shoulder. “Isabelle’s a good girl.”

Griffin blinked again and snorted, casting Shippou a somewhat droll glance. “I don’t know about ‘good’,” he muttered, retrieving a fallen branch to lean on. “But I suppose she is a girl . . .”

Shippou smiled and shook his head, positive that life could still hold surprises, even after the passage of centuries.

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“You know, maybe you should go over there and tell him.”

Charity Inutaisho blinked and shot her sister a questioning glance. “Tell who what?”

Chelsea Inutaisho snorted and rolled her eyes, flicking a limp hand in the direction of the Gathering of the Stoics, or so she’d unofficially named it. “Go tell Ben that you want to fuck him.”

Charity gasped and whirled around, slapping her hand over her twin sister’s rather overzealous mouth. “Chel _sea!_ ” she hissed, her face blossoming in color.

Chelsea laughed and stuck out her tongue. Charity squeaked and jerked her hand away, glaring at her palm with abject distaste before glancing around to find something to wipe it on. “Eww! That’s disgusting, you know!”

“Then don’t put your hand over my mouth!”

Charity wrinkled her nose and shook her hand, as though the action would alleviate the lingering sensation of being licked. “That aside, I can’t do that, and even if I could, who’s to say that Ben would even be interested?”

Chelsea shrugged and dug a mother of pearl compact out of her purse, flipping it open as she checked her lipstick. Making a face at the slight smudges brought on by her sister’s unceremonious hand-over-mouth technique, she pulled the lipstick out, too. “You think he wouldn’t be? Unless he’s gay—can youkai _really_ be gay?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t think _he_ is—and you smudged a bit right there.”

“Are you sure?” Chelsea countered, her eyes shifting to meet her sister’s before returning to the mirror in her hand. “I mean, he has spent all day over there, talking to Grandfather and Cain . . . Maybe he’s attracted to one of them . . . The obvious choice would be Cain since Ben lives to serve his _ma-a-ahstah_ , but you have to admit, Grandfather’s pretty damn . . . _pretty_ . . .”

Charity shook her head, frowning slightly at her demented twin. “That is so wrong on so many different levels,” she muttered.

Chelsea ran the tip of her index finger along the outline of her top lip before snapping the compact closed and stowing the cosmetics in her purse once more. “You could always waltz on over there, grab his ass, and drag him off to dance.”

Chelsea wasn’t surprised to see the pretty blush pink her sister’s cheeks. “I do not grab asses!” she hissed.

Chelsea laughed. “I know, but you should.”

Charity’s answer was a long-suffering sigh.

“Don’t look now, but it seems that someone’s heading over this way,” Chelsea half-sang.

Charity didn’t have time to respond. With a quick wink, Chelsea turned on her heel and hurried away, and Charity could only watch as an eruption of flutters in her stomach precluded breathing while she watched Ben moving toward her.

She’d seen him in his ceremonial clothes before, of course, but there was just something about the black garb that she loved. It was fashioned in much the same design as Cain’s—he’d told her once that, as Cain’s top general, that he chose to wear clothes that denoted this. The long black sash that extended up over his chest and was held by a burnished silver clasp whipped around him in the breeze that had picked up slightly as the afternoon had progressed, carrying Ben’s unmistakable scent right to her, and she couldn’t help herself as she spared a moment to breathe in deep.

“Hello, Ms. Inutaisho. You look lovely, as always,” he said, bowing slightly in customary greeting.

Charity bowed, too, swallowing hard and telling herself that she needed to calm down before he heard her heart beating. “Thank you . . . Charity’s fine, and it’s nice to see you again, Ben.”

Ben smiled and nodded. “Ah, yes, you do tell me that often, don’t you?” he apologized.

She laughed. “You look nice, too . . .”

He sighed and shrugged. “I’ll admit: it feels a bit odd to wear this when it’s been so long since I’ve done so.”

“Weddings seem to be the only place where youkai conform to the old ways,” she ventured.

Ben’s smile seemed a little sad, but he nodded. “I would suppose so.”

“So, um, what do you think of Dr. Marin?” she asked, unable to come up with anything else to say.

Ben let out a deep breath, his gaze seeking out the youkai in question before he answered. “He’s a good man,” he finally said. “A very good man.”

“I think so, too . . . I mean, anyone who voluntarily lets the guys drag him to a bar without really knowing them has to be a pretty good guy, I’d say.”

Ben’s chuckle was warm, breathy. “Would you care to dance, Ms . . . _Charity_ ,” he amended.

“I-I-I’d love to,” she stammered, feeling the color rise in her cheeks once more despite her very best efforts to control it.

He’d just extended his arm, though, when Bellaniece Izayoi stepped up to the microphone, silencing the band as Isabelle tugged Griffin up the three steps onto the platform. “It seems that it’s time for the bride to throw her bouquet, so if we could have all the single ladies, please . . .?”

Stifling a sigh—she’d really wanted to dance with Ben, after all—Charity forced a little smile and clasped her hands in front of herself, making no move to join the girls to vie for the bouquet.

“Shouldn’t you be among them?” Ben leaned down to whisper.

“Oh, uh . . . I-I guess,” she murmured.

Ben smiled and inclined his head as Charity drew a deep breath and made herself move forward through the milling crowd . . .

 

 

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

“This seems a little . . .”

“Silly?” Isabelle supplied when Griffin trailed off.

Griffin grunted and wrinkled his nose. “I was going to say ‘stupid’,” he countered.

She smiled and leaned up to kiss his stubbly cheek. He’d taken great pains in shaving this morning, she knew, but he was already showing the signs of a rather sexy five-o-clock shadow—something that highly amused her even if it was yet another source of chagrin for the poor man. “I was thinking,” she whispered as her mother encouraged the single women to come forward, “after you toss my garter belt, how ‘bout we get the hell out of here?”

He grunted again. “Garter belt?” he echoed, eyes darkening as a dubious expression surfaced.

“That’s right, big guy,” she couldn’t help but tease. “And you’re the lucky man who gets to take it off of me, too.”

If her words hadn’t gotten to him, the wink she gave him most certainly did. Face exploding in crimson color, he sucked in a sharp breath and stubbornly shook his head.

Isabelle didn’t get a chance to savor the expression, though, because Bellaniece grasped her hand to pull her over. Some of the girls were waving, trying to get Isabelle to aim the bouquet at them. She wasn’t surprised to see that Lexi was standing toward the back beside Samantha, looking like she was contemplating the great escape. Bellaniece laughed and turned Isabelle around by the shoulders before stuffing her bouquet into her hands. “Do me a favor,” she said, her voice barely audible above the din. “Aim for someone who _isn’t_ your sister, okay?”

“Mama! And here you’ve always said that you wanted your daughters to be happy!” Isabelle chided playfully.

Bellaniece laughed but made a face. “Happy, yes, but maybe not so close together, hmm?”

Isabelle kissed her mother’s cheek and drew a deep breath before tossing the bouquet over her shoulder, high in the air. In the chaos of shrieks that followed as Isabelle turned around, it took a moment to see exactly who had the bouquet since it seemed like most of the girls had wanted to catch it, after all. Alexandra stood back just slightly, her hands empty, and while she tried to look a little forlorn, Isabelle knew damn well that _that_ particular sister wasn’t sorry that she hadn’t caught it, in the least.

“Ah . . . oh, my,” Isabelle murmured as Samantha held the bouquet up. “Sorry, Mama,” she said, casting her mother a rather sheepish grin as Bellaniece heaved a sigh and let Kichiro draw her close against her chest, kissing her forehead in an entirely placating sort of way.

“All right,” Kichiro hollered. “Single guys, please.”

Griffin still looked completely dubious about the entire affair, and Isabelle had to press her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Can’t you just take it off and hand it to me?” he growled in her ear.

“Now where’s the fun in that?” she retorted.

He sighed, and she giggled as she propped her foot up on a low amplifier positioned nearby and slowly started to lift her skirt.

She’d gotten it lifted to about her knee amid a riot of cat calls that—she hoped, anyway—didn’t come from anyone she was directly related to, but since it was all in good fun, she played along, deliberately making a show of it as she carefully inched the skirt up a little higher.

Griffin growled and grabbed her arm, tugging her around so that her back was facing everyone, and despite the acute embarrassment on his features, he shot her a quelling glower and shook his head. “They don’t need to see that, do they?” he complained.

She laughed and kissed him quickly, pulling her skirt up so that only he could see her leg.

“I-I ought to turn you over my knee,” he grumbled, slowly reaching toward the garter belt that she’d had specially made just for the occasion. What he’d obviously seen was the cute little silver Winnie the Pooh charm dangling by a Winnie the Pooh ribbon from the tiny bit of silk and lace and elastic.

All the same, he pushed it down her leg, and she braced herself on his shoulders so that she could lift her foot, allowing him to tug it off. By the time he was finished removing it, much to their guests’ collective amusement, he was completely red-faced and looked quite like he wanted to turn tail and run.

There was no pomp or ceremony surrounding Griffin’s throwing of the garter belt. As though he was worried that it would somehow come to life and bite him, he hurled it as he rose to his feet. He didn’t stop to aim or to taunt the bachelors in the crowd, no. Intent on being rid of the belt seemed to have been the only thing on his mind. When Isabelle turned around to face the crowd, though, she couldn’t help the laugh that welled up inside her, but she had a feeling that what she saw would stick in her mind for the rest of her natural born life . . .

Gunnar was still moving, obviously having just returned to the party, when the garter belt whizzed through the air, only to loop over his left ear. The momentum spun it around his ear a couple of times before it flopped harmlessly against his head, and with a very loud, very exact curse, the hanyou reached up and jerked the garter belt off his ear.

Isabelle wasn’t sure whether the implication of catching the garter belt or the idea of how, exactly, he’d managed to do it, bothered Gunnar more, but it wasn’t surprising when he tried to shove the item into Mikio’s hand—the only other bachelor in that area.

Mikio threw his hands up and stepped back quickly, as though the garter belt might bite him, leaving a scowling Gunnar holding the bag, as it were.

He tried to get rid of it a few more times, even going so far as to try to hand it off to Ben. The panther-youkai smiled in complete good-humor and leaned in to say something to Gunnar that stopped the hanyou’s blustering.

Whatever Ben had said to Gunnar, Isabelle didn’t know, but Gunnar turned around then, scanning the crowd as though he were looking for something. When he spotted Samantha, still rather bashfully holding the bouquet, he smiled and gave a small shrug as he stuffed the garter belt into the billowing sleeve of his ceremonial clothes. Stepping forward, he held out his hand as a laughing Kichiro signaled the band to proceed.

Samantha looked completely beside herself with an effervescent smile that gave her a very distinct glow, and she laughed, blushing prettily, when Gunnar leaned in to whisper something into her ear. Isabelle figured that Gunnar might have had to worry a little if Samantha weren’t his cousin. Still, she had to concede that, cousin or not, dancing with a man who looked like Gunnar had to be an unexpected thrill for her young sister, and whether Gunnar realized it or not, he’d very likely just made Samantha’s day.

“What was that you said about . . . about getting out of here?”

Isabelle turned and smiled. Griffin, satisfied that the worst was over, was staring out over the crowd. She could tell by the slight tightness around his eyes that he was tired, and while she wouldn’t have minded staying just a little bit longer, she knew that she’d never complain about having her bear all to herself again, either.

Taking his hand, she pulled him off the stage and over to her mother and father, who were busy watching the couple dancing: Kichiro with an oddly sad little smile, and Bellaniece with her eyes shining, suspiciously bright. “Thank you, Mama . . . Papa,” Isabelle said, hugging each of her parents in turn. “I think . . . I think that we’re going to go home now.”

Kichiro blinked and frowned at Isabelle. “Oh . . . let me go get the car . . .”

“Papa,” she hurried to say, placing a hand on his arm, “I think . . . I think we’d rather walk to the hotel.”

Kichiro shook his head since that ‘walk’ was a good ten miles down a lonely stretch of country road. Turning his attention to the sky, he finally nodded. “I guess there isn’t much chance of rain.”

“So you’re saying that you want to sneak off before anyone realizes that you’re gone?” Bellaniece asked pointedly.

Isabelle grinned at her mother. “Something like that.”

Bellaniece laughed and gave Kichiro a significant look. “Well, what do you think, lover? Should we just let these two go?”

Kichiro chuckled and hugged Isabelle once more. “You take care of my little girl, Dr. Marin . . . I’m entrusting her to your care now.”

Griffin nodded curtly as Isabelle took his hand and started pulling him around the side of the mansion.

Neither spoke as they ventured into the forest—taking a shortcut as they headed for the gates of the estate. The sounds of the reception that still going on despite the disappearance of the bride and groom still could be heard, but it was a more ambient sound. As they stepped through the gates and onto the worn old road that led back to Bevelle, Isabelle suddenly laughed, whipping around on her heel to throw her arms around Griffin’s neck as she pulled him down into a kiss.

Warm, welcome, bright and shining, full of promise and emotion that Griffin wanted to hold onto for the rest of his life, she laughed again, hugging him tight before finally, reluctantly, letting go so they could continue walking. “We could have stayed longer if you’d wanted to,” he ventured at last.

Isabelle sighed and smiled up at him, the train of the silk and satin dress hanging over her arm. “I think receptions are more for the guests than for the couple,” she mused. “I’ve yet to meet a couple who doesn’t want to sneak off to be alone right after they’ve just gotten married.”

“Is that how that works?” he asked, absently wondering why he wasn’t feeling particularly sore.

“Mmm,” she intoned with a curt nod. “Griffin . . .”

“What?”

She stopped and turned to face him, her happy expression fading as a seriousness entered her gaze. “I’m going to make you happy, you know,” she said.

Griffin sighed and turned away, unsettled by the very sight of her, all wrapped up in silk and lace and satin and pearls, looking as delicate as a fleeting dream even as the gentleness of her youki—a quiet, understated thing that he understood was far, far stronger than his would ever be—surrounded him.

She’d taught him a hundred things in the simplicity of a simple smile. She’d driven back the darkness that had been his existence for so very long. She was his reason, his sanity, his salvation—his _avouchment_ —and he couldn’t help the tears that filled his eyes—tears that he’d forgotten how to shed so long before he’d ever met her. Staring out over the expanse of the ocean that stretched on before him, maybe this once he could tell her. Maybe this once would be all right . . .

“You’re wrong,” he said, his voice husky, thick.

“Wrong?” she echoed, stepping up beside him, the invisible fingertips of the fresh breeze stirring the soft bangs that has escaped the confines of her meticulous arrangement.

He nodded, sniffed, spared her a quick glance before turning his face to the sea once more. “You can’t . . . make me ha-happier . . . than you already have.”

She gasped softly, her eyes brightening by degrees, her smile trembling on her lips as she reached out, stroked his cheek.   “Let’s go, Griffin,” she said as her smile widened.

He stumbled but caught himself as she grasped his hand and started to run, her laughter trailing out behind her, beckoning him further, onward . . . home . . . and Griffin . . .

Finding his stride, refusing to let go of her hand, he ran with her . . .

And he laughed.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Final_** **_Thought_** **_from Griffin_** :  
>  _My avouchment_ …


	78. Epilogue: Full Circle

.: _April 12, 2090_ :.

~ ** _xXxXxXxXxXx_** ~

 

 

Griffin stared around the small meadow with an odd sense of detachment that he couldn’t completely understand. The air was crisp and light, touched with just the barest hint of the rain that the morning sun had banished mere hours ago, and Isabelle had laughed at him when he’d tried to ignore her steady if not gentle bits of coaxing as she’d tried to get him out of bed.

It was a good feeling, wasn’t it? The desire to lie in bed all day still wasn’t one that he was entirely used to, though he figured that he would, given time. Nearly four and a half years since the last of the reconstructive surgeries, and he still hadn’t come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t bound any longer by the physical limitations that he’d lived with for the better part of his life.

A lot had changed in those years, hadn’t it?

To be honest, a lot had changed in his life since he’d opened the front door that fateful day, only to find Isabelle standing on his porch, smiling up at him in that sheepish way just before she’d asked for his help . . .

Letting out a deep breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in, he lifted his gaze to the clear blue sky overhead.

He’d feared this place, hadn’t he?

After so many centuries when he’d known in his heart that coming back here would only open wounds that were best left healed, he’d thought that maybe . . .

There was no trace of the cloying smoke that he remembered too vividly in the darkness of his dreams—the dreams that Isabelle had managed to chase away with her laughter and her smiles. Gone was the sense of trepidation, too, and while he didn’t even try to delude himself into believing that he’d ever truly forget, maybe it was long past time to let go of those things that he hadn’t been able to change. All reminders that there ever had been a village standing there were gone—lost in a hazy memory and in the clutches of nightmares that he had outgrown long ago. The sounds of birds singing in the nearby trees filled his ears, chasing away the lingering echoes of screams and tears and pain . . .

He wasn’t sure that he wanted to see this place again, was he? He hadn’t been sure until he’d looked across the breakfast table at his wife—his mate . . . and his three year old daughter.

“So this is the place . . .?” Isabelle asked softly, as though she were afraid that raising her voice would hurt him.

“This is it,” he agreed in a low rumble and without taking his gaze off the empty meadow.

“If you want to go back . . .”

He shook his head and took her hand, and while he didn’t smile, he thought maybe Isabelle understood. It wasn’t a sense of happiness, anyway. No, it was more a sense of peace, that he finally understood the things that he had struggled with for centuries. Everything happened for a reason, right? That was the old saying, wasn’t it? Maybe he had to lose everything in order to truly appreciate the things that Isabelle had given him, and maybe . . . maybe that was enough.

“This way,” he said, tugging gently on Isabelle’s hand to get her moving.

Strange how he knew the path despite the years and the changes in the area. He didn’t have to stop to think, didn’t have to gauge his position even once as he crossed the meadow with Isabelle in tow, heading into the forest without a second thought.

How frightened had he been the last time he’d walked this way? How much hatred had he carried with him back then? The path was completely overgrown, but Griffin didn’t have any trouble breaking through it, clearing a path for Isabelle.

She didn’t know where they were going, and she didn’t ask. He supposed that she understood, even if he never told her. That was her way. It always had been.

He wasn’t sure when the idea had first occurred to him. It wasn’t as though he’d woken up one day with the burning desire to return to Japan. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. They’d visited Japan a number of times since they’d gotten married, but he’d never thought to visit this place. He’d never considered it, really.

In the end, he’d just wanted to pay his respects to the people who had died that day—not just his family, but the humans that he’d killed. Ignorance and fear drove folks to do terrible things; he knew that, and yet . . .

And yet the anger that he’d nearly let consume him was gone, too. He frowned. Maybe not gone, exactly, but it had changed, evolved into something more like a deeper melancholy that would probably never completely go away. That was all right, wasn’t it? It was okay to miss those he’d lost along the way as long as he kept in mind that he dare not forget them: not ever.

The trees thinned slightly, and Isabelle blinked as he pulled her out of the forest and into a small clearing. In the center of the clearing was a lone sakura tree: a tree so old that it seemed to bend over itself. The boughs were laden with delicate blossoms, and the fragrance of the flowers was thick in the air.

Griffin stopped short, his eyes narrowing as he frowned. There were three small stone headstones lined up at the base of the tree.

Letting go of Isabelle’s hand, he slowly wandered forward, digging his hands into his pockets as he focused on the stones.

There was no writing on any of them; no indication of whose graves they were marking. Hunkering down at the base of the middle grave, Griffin turned his face up toward the sky. Staring up through the network of branches at the patches of sky, he frowned. The flowers were still in full bloom, yet petals had fallen to cover the graves, blanketing the ground in a down of pale pink and white.

  
“Is this her grave?” Isabelle asked quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder.

He reached up and covered her hand with his. “I . . . yeah . . . this one . . .”

She sank down beside him, reaching out to idly finger the delicate petals of the dying blooms. “It’s beautiful, this place . . .” she ventured.

Griffin nodded. “It is.”

“Are these your parents’ graves?”

Letting out a deep breath, Griffin finally lowered his chin and shrugged. “No . . . I mean, I don’t think so . . . I didn’t bury them here. They didn’t . . . they didn’t leave their bodies behind.”

“Daddy!”

Bracing himself against the ground, Griffin turned to watch as his daughter came barreling toward him. Not far behind, just stepping out of the forest, was Shippou. Catching Griffin’s gaze, the kitsune lifted a hand to wave. Griffin nodded and slipped an arm around his daughter’s waist before kissing her downy cheek. “I thought you wanted to go play,” he said. They’d dropped her off to play with Shippou’s granddaughters at the Inutaisho mansion.

“I did played,” she insisted.

Griffin snorted but leaned down to rub his nose against hers. “Play,” he corrected gruffly yet gently.

She nodded rather emphatically. “I want to play with Mama.”

“With your mama?” Griffin echoed with a shake of his head. “But you’re _my_ girl, aren’t you?”

“I want to play hide n’ seek,” she replied.

“Your mama stinks at that game,” he pointed out. “Some of her parts are too big to hide.”

His daughter giggled and wiggled out of his grip to dart over to her mother’s side. “Mama!   C’mon!” she insisted, grabbing Isabelle’s hands and tugging. “You’re it!”

“I’m it? Why am I always ‘it’?” Isabelle protested, sparing a moment to wink at Griffin.

He snorted and tried not to blush then shook his head when her laughter stated plainly that his efforts hadn’t worked.

“She missed her parents,” Shippou remarked as he stopped beside Griffin. “Figured you were coming out here.”

Griffin watched as his mate and daughter ran out into the sunshine to play. Isabelle covered her eyes and laughed as their child darted away to hide behind a very large boulder.

“I wanted to check on her,” Griffin admitted, nodding at the middle grave stone. “But whose graves are these?”

Shippou took his time as he pulled an errant sprig of ivy from the base of one of the other markers. The kitsune smiled sadly, idly running his claws over the weathered smoothness of the stone. “They never forgot, you know? And they never stopped blaming themselves, either . . .”

Griffin shook his head, unable to grasp the meaning of what Shippou was telling him. “They? ‘They’, who?”

“Miroku and Sango . . . He always said that if they had gotten to the village just a little sooner . . .”

Griffin didn’t miss the catch in Shippou’s voice. He shook his head. “There wasn’t a thing they could’ve done to save them,” he finally said. “There wasn’t a thing that _anyone_ could have done to save them.”

Letting out a slow sigh, Shippou nodded, letting his hands fall to dangle between his spread knees as he scanned the area without meeting Griffin’s gaze. “Sango said it was the least she could do—watching over your sister . . . and Miroku . . . he thought so, too . . . They didn’t want her to ever have to be alone again.”

Shippou’s words caught Griffin by surprise, and he blinked as he let his gaze roam over the three nondescript graves. There was no engraving in the stones to give testimony to the souls who rested there, and somehow, that fit, too. He’d run away from them—from Sango and Miroku—when they’d tried to stop him—to comfort him, but he had been too afraid, hadn’t he? Too full of anger and too scared to do anything but run . . .

He had to clear his throat before he could speak again. A suspect lump had grown so thick and solid that it took a moment before he could regain the ability to give voice to his thoughts. That the monk and his mate would remember a little girl who had died a violent death well before she ever should have humbled Griffin in such a way that he wasn’t sure what he could say . . . “They . . . they _wanted_ to be buried with her?”

Shippou nodded, his eyes suspiciously bright despite the smallest hint of a smile quirking his lips. “Yeah, they did.”

He didn’t speak right away. It was enough that she wasn’t alone—that she hadn’t ever been left alone. Gazing around at the wide open space, Griffin slowly shook his head. “I can’t believe this area hasn’t been developed.”

“Well, the guy who owns the property is pretty well set against letting that happen. They’ve asked him about it a few times. He just doesn’t think that graves should be disturbed.”

“You sound like you know him.”

With a chuckle, Shippou shrugged. “I suppose you could say that,” he ventured at length. “Sesshoumaru has owned it for . . . well, for a long time.”

Griffin shot Shippou a questioning glance. “Sesshoumaru?”

“Yep . . . He never really said as much, but it bothered him; what happened to your family. I mean, it was the reason he made the edict—the final one, anyway . . .” Eyes clouding over, he seemed to be looking into the past, his bright green eyes taking on a hazy fog of half-forgotten memory.   “I remember . . .” he finally said in a quiet, almost preoccupied tone. “We had just finished burying the villagers—it seemed like we were always burying someone back then . . . Sango was tired, and Miroku was praying, and I . . . I looked up at the horizon, and Sesshoumaru was standing there. He didn’t say anything. He just . . . looked.”

Turning his head, Griffin frowned at the sight of his mate and daughter as the two frolicked and played nearby. A bitter stab of guilt shot through him—regret over the blood he’d shed in his lifetime. He supposed that the feeling would never truly go away, and that was all right, wasn’t it? As long as he didn’t repeat past mistakes . . . Isabelle . . . she’d taught him that, too.

“He said he’d sell you this place if you want it,” Shippou remarked.

“This place?” Griffin echoed. “Why?”

The kitsune shrugged, his smile returning as the vague expression dissipated from his gaze. “She’s here, isn’t she? Don’t you want it?”

He hadn’t considered it before. To be honest, he hadn’t known whether or not his sister’s grave was still here, at all. Maybe that was the real reason he hadn’t come looking for it before. Afraid that her resting place had been desecrated sometime during the passing centuries, he realized now that he had been worried that it had simply ceased to exist . . .

“I’ll talk to him,” Griffin said, more to himself than to Shippou.

Shippou nodded and pushed himself to his feet, his smile widening as he whistled loudly and wandered over to Isabelle.

Griffin pondered Shippou’s words. He wasn’t sure he wanted the land where the village had stood, but this place . . . the peacefulness and beauty that he’d wanted for his sister . . . He wanted it, if only to ensure that it always remained exactly how it was now; how it had been in the recesses of his memories. Settling back, he wrapped his arms around his raised knees, smiling vaguely as the echo of a child’s laughter—laughter silenced so long ago—echoed in his ears.

But it was another child’s laughter that drew him out of his reverie, the comforting presence of an ebullient soul so very much like her mother’s. He blinked then narrowed his eyes as he focused on his daughter’s face—the golden eyes, the bronze hair . . . her mother’s daughter, absolutely. She giggled happily as she leaned forward, lacing a sakura blossom into his hair.

“I make you pretty,” she said with a smile that displayed the deep dimple in her right cheek.

For a moment, Griffin couldn’t breathe; couldn’t think. The vivid memory of another child and the sakura blossoms that looked and smelled exactly the same . . . It brought a painful, throbbing ache to his chest, and he blinked quickly as a wash of moisture gathered.

“K . . . Kumiko did that, too,” he rasped out, unable to control the emotion that colored his voice.

His daughter’s smile widened as another round of giggles slipped out of her. “I’m Kumiko!” she chastised.

“Yes, you are,” he replied.

She took a moment to arrange another flower in his hair before plopping down in her father’s lap with a contented sigh. “Was she pretty?” she asked.

Griffin nodded, pressing his lips against his daughter’s downy hair as he swallowed hard; as he fought down the rising lump that choked him. “Yes, she was,” he whispered.

“I’m pretty ‘cause I look like Mama,” she said thoughtfully.

“Of course you are.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

Griffin tilted his head back as Isabelle leaned down to kiss him. “Don’t let it go to your head,” he muttered, cheeks pinking since he hadn’t realized that she was within earshot.

“What is it about girls named Kumiko sticking flowers in your hair on your birthday?” Shippou deadpanned as he strode over.

Griffin shook his head and set Kumiko on her feet before pushing himself off the ground.

“It’s your birthday, Daddy?” Kumiko demanded, tugging on Griffin’s hand to gain his attention.

“Uh . . .”

Shippou laughed. “Yep, it’s his birthday,” he replied. “Did you forget, Kiyoshi?”

Griffin nodded, caught off-guard by the use of the name that he’d left behind so long ago. “I guess I did.”

Shippou’s laughter escalated, and he winked at Kumiko in a conspiratorial sort of way. “Ever see foxfire?” he asked.

The girl’s eyes widened, and she ran over to the kitsune without a second glance.

Isabelle slipped her arms around Griffin’s waist and leaned up to kiss him. “Happy birthday, Dr. Marin,” she said with a tender smile.

“I . . . I forgot,” he admitted quietly. “Then when I wanted to remember, I couldn’t.”

She stared at him for a minute as the breeze stirred her hair, tossing it lightly, lovingly. Suddenly, though, her eyes clouded, and her smile faded as she sighed. “I can’t bring back your family, Griffin,” she murmured with a rueful shake of her head, “but I can give you a new one.”

“You already have,” he said, his voice harsher than he’d intended, thick with emotion that he just couldn’t hide.

She ducked her head as though she were trying to hide her tears from him. He smelled them, though, and he grimaced. Maybe he wasn’t good with words, and maybe he tended to get tongue-tied whenever he tried to tell her how he felt. Still, with as much as she had already given him—as much as she gave him every day of her life . . . He had to try, didn’t he? Just this once, even if he couldn’t really give voice to the feelings in a more poetic way . . .

Catching her chin with his bent index finger, he gently forced her to look at him as he licked his lips and cleared his throat. “I-Isabelle?”

“I know; I know; I’m leaking again,” she blubbered with a sniffle as she wiped her eyes quickly.

He tried to smile but figured that it probably looked more like a grimace than anything. “N-n-no,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “I just . . . I mean, I . . .” He paused to clear his throat. “I . . . I l-love . . . you.”

She gasped softly, her watery gaze flicking to meet his as a fresh wash of tears filled her eyes. “I know,” she whispered, her smile weak and thready but genuine, nonetheless.

He snorted and shot her a fierce glower. “Y-you know?” he echoed incredulously.

She nodded and kissed him then threw her head back and laughed. “Of course I know, Griffin Marin. I’ve known for a long, long time.”

“I thought you women wanted to hear stuff like that,” he grumped.

She laughed louder and kissed him again. “We do, but that doesn’t mean that we don’t know.”

“I want a kiss, too!”

Griffin snapped his mouth closed on the retort that had been forming as he leaned to the side to glance down at his daughter. “I like _your_ kisses,” he said as he scooped Kumiko up and settled her in the crook of his arm.

“Not that cheek!” she insisted, planting her little hands on either side of his head to turn his face. “That’s Mama’s cheek! This one’s my cheek!”

He rolled his eyes but let Kumiko kiss his unscarred cheek.

Isabelle laughed and leaned in to kiss his other cheek. “That’s right! The scars are Mama’s, remember?”

Kumiko nodded once then shrieked with laughter when Griffin rubbed his stubbly cheek against hers. “Another kiss!” she insisted.

Griffin heaved a sigh but let her do it. Isabelle laughed again as a strange sparkle ignited in her gaze. “That’s Kumiko’s cheek, and this is Mama’s cheek . . . and these—” She reached around and grasped Griffin’s rear, “—are Mama’s cheeks, too.”

“I—y— _Jezebel!_ ” Griffin growled.

Isabelle laughed and leaned in to kiss him again, and with a long-suffering sigh, he let her.

 

 

 

 

 

**_\--- The End ---_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _April 27, 2008_.  
>  _7:05 p.m_.
> 
>  
> 
>  ** _Final_** **_Thought_** **_from_** **_Griffin_** :  
>  _My… birthday …?_

**Author's Note:**

>  _Blanket disclaimer for this fanfic (will apply to this and all other chapters in_ **_Avouchment_** _): I do not claim any rights to_ **_InuYasha_** _or the characters associated with the anime/manga. Those rights belong to Rumiko Takahashi, et al. I do offer my thanks to her for creating such vivid characters for me to terrorize_.
> 
>  
> 
> ~ _Sue_ ~


End file.
